


The Performance

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Don't copy to another site, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg can sing, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock rarely asks favours. Well, he does, but not like this. And when Greg hears the whole story, how can he say no? He doesn't really think about the details, though, until Mycroft calls to discuss them. That's when things start to get interesting.





	1. About Two Weeks Until Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks.  
> Full disclosure - this is technically a WIP, and won't be completely published before Christmas. I'm aiming for New Year's, though, so you'll be able to read the full tale to ring in 2019.  
> <3

“I need you to sing this for me.”

Greg blinked at Sherlock. “What?”

He gripped the paper being thrust into his hand automatically, feeling the frown form as he tried to understand.

“Sing, Greg. I know you can sing, I heard you at the Christmas party last year.” Sherlock’s voice was brusque, but Greg knew him well enough to hear the subtle pleading beneath it.

Greg’s brain was still getting around what he was being asked to do.

“You want me to sing for you?” He looked down at the paper in his hand. “Hang on is this…Alicia Keys?”

“Yes, your primary school reading is up to par, as always.”

Greg looked up, blinking again. “You called me Greg.”

Sherlock flushed. “As you are so often reminding me, it is your name.”

“Yes,” Greg replied. He sat back in his chair for a moment, looking hard at Sherlock.

“Well?” Sherlock said impatiently.

“So,” Greg said, standing up to close his door. Sherlock’s eyes followed him, still looking less than comfortable with the whole conversation. _He must really want this_ , Greg realised.

“What the hell do I need to sing a song for?”

Sherlock huffed. “Surely it’s a simple request.”

“From anyone else it might be,” Greg said, leaning against his door and crossing his arms, “but I’ve learned to ask for details from you, Sherlock.”

“Well if you don’t think you can do it,” Sherlock retorted.

“This has nothing to do with it,” Greg said. “You came in and asked me, and it doesn’t take twenty-five years of policing to figure out this is important to you. And,” Greg added before Sherlock could interrupt, “don’t tell me how many favours I owe you. I’d say we’re more or less even on that score, mate.”

He added the ‘mate’ at the end to soften his words. Greg had no idea if it was true, but he’d argue the toss all day with Sherlock about cases solved versus detectives rescued from filthy drug dens. What was true was how unlikely he was to do this for Sherlock without a hell of a lot more details. Blind agreement was not something he’d readily grant Sherlock, no matter how much trust there was between them.

For a case, maybe; the man was a genius, and rarely wrong.

Not for something like this, though.

For all he knew, Sherlock wanted him to sing nude at this year’s Christmas party or something.

“Fine,” Sherlock ground out. “Exactly how much detail do you need here?”

“Oh, start talking and we’ll see how we go,” Greg replied. The more uncomfortable Sherlock became the more relaxed Greg found himself, which was odd, but he trusted his instincts.

Sherlock stared for a moment then began speaking at his usual clip. “This song is evidently a favourite of John’s. According to his iTunes account, it has been played repeatedly in the six months since the account was opened. Mycroft and I are required to perform a private concert for our parents on Boxing Day. It is a another tiresome ritual of which I intend to take full advantage this year. I have arranged this song for violin, piano and voice. Mycroft will play piano, I will of course take the violin part, and you will sing.”

Greg stared. “You want me to come to Christmas with your family, to sing,” he glanced at the song sheet again, “ _No-one_ to John on your behalf.”

Sherlock nodded. “In essence, yes.”

“You’re bonkers, mate.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Sherlock said. “Do you not understand the requirements?”

“Yes, I understand the requirements,” Greg replied tersely. He rubbed one hand over his face. “Okay, here’re the questions I have about this.”

“Please, enlighten me,” Sherlock sighed.

Greg ignored the snark. He ticked items off on his fingers as he went. “I have no idea if I’ll have to work Christmas. What the hell will you tell your parents? Where are we talking, London or someplace four hours’ drive from here? John’s going to want to know what the hell I’m doing there. How are you going to convince Mycroft to play for you? I didn’t know he played, by the way.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Greg continued.

“Are you sure…I mean, is John going to be receptive to this?” Greg faltered a bit as his questions became more personal. “Do you think this is the right way to do this, in public? Have you considered what you’ll do if he says no? Or if he says yes, for that matter?”

“Every possible scenario has been considered,” Sherlock assured him.

“Really,” Greg said, allowing his scepticism to fully colour his voice.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied impatiently, his expression complex.

“Even this one?” Greg asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, no, I meant with respect to John, of course,” Sherlock said. His face, usually so assured, even arrogant, was confused. Vulnerable.

Greg took pity on him. It was the first time he’d seen Sherlock unsure of anything.

“Look,” Greg said. “Basically, I want to know all the details. Nothing to jump out and surprise me. Or anyone else,” he added at the last minute. “If there’s some kind of cover story going on, I want to know everyone’s in on it.”

Sherlock nodded.

Greg narrowed his eyes, wondering if he’d covered all the bases. When five seconds of silence had reigned in his office, he relented, moving to sit on the clear side of his sofa.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m sure you have some kind of plan worked out. Start at the start.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.

 

_A few days later…_

The conversation with Sherlock had been running around in Greg’s head almost without pause. Sherlock had been surprisingly forthcoming, in the end, but only one sentence looped through Greg’s consciousness, lulling him to sleep at night.

_The least suspicious scenario would be you pretending to be Mycroft’s intimate partner._

“Lestrade,” he answered, used to calls late at night. He was halfway out of bed before the voice in his ear registered.

“Detective Inspector, I hope I did not wake you.”

“Mycroft?” Greg yawned. He sank back onto his bed, now unsure what was going on.

“Yes.”

“It’s half three in the morning.”

A pause. “Ahh. My apologies.”

Mycroft didn’t sound as though he was about to drag him out of bed so Greg shook his head, relaxing a little. “Can I assume I don’t need to get dressed?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was in bed. If you’re getting the time this wrong you mustn’t be in London, so you’re not about to pick me up, so,” he paused for a yawn, “I can stay in bed.”

“Of course.” Another pause. “Shall I phone you at a later time?”

“Nuh, I’m up now,” Greg said, shuffling back to sit against the headboard. Covers pulled up, slumped down, and he was cosy as. “What’s up?”

“I believe you spoke to Sherlock last week.”

The statement pulled forward the smirk Greg’d been suppressing since his brain had made the connection.

“I’m guessing he’s called you, then.”

“He did.”

“Tell you his plan?”

“He did.” Mycroft sounded less than enthusiastic about the conversation he’d obviously had with his brother.

Greg smirked again, scratching at his jaw. “Did he do the thing where he left all the details out first?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, so dryly he sounded exactly like his brother.

“I’m assuming it didn’t take you as long to make him tell you what he was actually planning,” Greg asked.

“Sherlock does have a considerable advantage when I am not dealing with him in person,” Mycroft admitted. “It may have taken my refusal to agree before he was completely forthcoming.”

_Their dynamic is so predictable. I wonder if Mycroft knows I had to do the same thing?_

“Snap,” Greg said, knowing his smile was audible.

“Yes,” Mycroft said a little uncomfortably. He cleared his throat. “When I was made aware of all the details of his plan, I felt it would be pertinent to contact you regarding our…” he trailed off.

Greg considered what he’d just heard for a moment. For all Mycroft’s formality, he could tell the other man was nervous. Relaxed, his speech slipped into far less convoluted speech patterns. This overly formal phrasing was his way of distancing himself from whatever was making him uncomfortable, and it didn’t take a detective to know what it was.

_We’ll both be doing it for Sherlock. I hope the berk knows how awkward this is going to be._

“Our role in this massively romantic gesture,” Greg supplied.

“If you wish to describe it so,” Mycroft said tightly.

“Oh come on,” Greg said. “For all its overcomplicated details, Sherlock’s basically come up with the most romantic thing he can think of.” He chuckled. “He’s done a pretty good job of it, actually.”

“Really,” Mycroft said flatly.

“Seriously?” Greg chuckled. “It might be a bit corny, but the endings of all the good romantic movies are.”

“You speak as though from experience,” Mycroft murmured.

“Perhaps,” Greg allowed. “Pretty sure everyone’s seen at least one at some point.”

“Hmmmm,” Mycroft said noncommittally.

_Is that a ‘yes, you’re right,’ or a ‘no, but I’m not going to admit it?’_

“So, are you calling to see if I’m up for this, then?” Greg asked. “Or to tell me you turned him down?”

“I have…agreed to Sherlock’s plan,” Mycroft said. “However I also wanted to be sure you were not under undue pressure to accept his proposal.”

Greg snorted. “Undue pressure?” he said. “Pretty sure Sherlock knows where the line is with me. He’s deduced plenty about me before, some I wished he’d kept to himself, but he knows I’m the only one who’ll work with him.”

“Still,” Mycroft hedged, “it appears this is quite important to him. I know he has used less than savoury methods in the past to ensure compliance.”

“Yeah, well, contrary to people’s belief, I do care about him,” Greg said. It stung a little, that Mycroft would think he wouldn’t help Sherlock out. “Thought you knew that, actually.”

“I do,” Mycroft was hasty to reply. “I apologise,” he added quietly. “You have been generous to Sherlock in the past and I have no reason to believe you would not continue to do so.”

 “Yeah,” Greg said. “So, I’m guessing we’re doing this, then?”

“It appears so,” Mycroft said, his voice still tentative.

_He’s seriously nervous about this. About the whole thing? Or just me?_

“Sherlock’s given me some details,” Greg said, “enough that I agreed to this, at least, but he told me you’d be working out a lot of it. Logistics, I figured, but there’s some other things we need to figure out. Don’t want to walk in there blind, you know?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “I would be pleased to respond to any of your questions, however I will be out of the country until late Christmas Eve. I anticipate having to travel directly from Heathrow to Musgrave Hall.”

“You won’t be back ‘til Christmas Eve?” Greg repeated. _Shit._ “I think Sherlock said we’d be driving down on Christmas Eve.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “I have arranged for your leave to extend from Christmas Eve to early January.”

“Christ, really?” Greg couldn’t help replying. “You’d better give me a morning on Christmas Eve, at least.” It was unheard of for coppers to have both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day completely off, let alone New Year’s too.

“Certainly, if you wish,” Mycroft replied. “You will need to liaise with Sherlock as to your time of departure. You will be expected for an early evening meal, I believe.”

“No problem,” Greg said. For 3- well, almost 4am now, he was wide awake.

“Look, is it better if I email you or something? I can’t think straight now, but you and I’ll have to figure out what…you know.” He cleared his throat. “How we’re going to…um, do this. Pretend to be…whatever.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured. “Perhaps email would be best.” He paused, then added, “An email will arrive in your inbox tomorrow. You can be assured it will be sufficiently secure for any conversation we have regarding this Christmas.”

“Okay,” Greg said.

 

_Later that day…_

When the email arrived, Greg made a point of saving the address into his phone and resolutely ignoring it for the rest of the day. None of this was even vaguely work related, and the last thing he needed was anyone walking in while he was wondering how to ask if he and Mycroft would have to share a bed.

_Christ._

While Greg made his best attempt to put the email from his mind, some part of it must have been working, because his response flowed freely when he finally sat down to write. Of course it could have been the beer, but Greg preferred to think of that as...lubrication.

_No. Not that. Definitely NOT that._

It was just…helping things along.

Ignoring his inner voice, he took a defiant sip, re-reading what he’d written so far.

 

_Hey Mycroft,_

_Still not entirely sure why we’ve signed up for this madness. I reckon Sherlock might need some moral support, to be honest, no matter which way it goes. Not to mention John. It’ll be a Christmas to remember, at any rate._

_Anyway, if we’re going to be convincing your parents I’m there as your guest, I guess it’s up to you how we do it. I’ve done some undercover stuff, so I can act well enough. And it’s probably never come up but I’ve had relationships with men before so if that’s a consideration…yeah. Just thought you should know. But whatever you’re comfortable with will probably be fine. I don’t know if you have a backstory in mind? I’ll leave it up to you, except that I might get there before you do, so you probably should tell me the main bits at least. John will definitely be asking questions._

_I was wondering if it would be weird for me to arrive before you? I mean, obviously I know Sherlock and John, but will that be weird for your parents? And we probably should have some idea of our story so I don’t mess it up before you get there. Don’t want to make it uncomfortable. And speaking of John, what are we telling him? He’s not in your league, but he’s pretty perceptive, so I don’t know how long I can deceive him for. Maybe if you talk to Sherlock about it? He might have some better ideas than this old copper._

_Other than that, Sherlock didn’t bother mentioning anything about what I should be wearing – how formal are we talking here? And does everyone do presents, is there a church service, other relatives I should know about, stuff like that. Don’t want to blow the whole thing before we get there._

_Anyway, let me know what I need to. Hopefully I won’t be there too many hours alone and we can talk in person a bit before I let anything important slip._

_Cheers,_

_Greg_

 

Greg sighed. There were enough questions in there without him adding more of the ones running through his head. Not that any of those in his head were in any way something he could actually ask. Most of them were logistical, all were highly personal, and he hoped they’d just kind of…figure it out.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Greg ran one hand through his hair.

“Dammit,” he muttered, sending the email.

His mind whirled with possibilities. Was he going to have to lie directly to John? What could he say to convince John, anyway? Maybe if he made it sound like it was Mycroft’s plan, something classified for MI-5? But what? He’d have to talk to Mycroft at least, over the phone if not in person. There were so many details, and with Sherlock AND Mycroft both in on this, he wanted to be sure they were all on the same page.

He wondered if Mycroft would want to pretend they were together. _Intimate partner_ , Sherlock had said. What other reason could there be for his presence? Surely Mycroft was not the kind of person to bring a _friend_ home, ever, let alone at Christmas. The thought occurred to Greg that he might be the first person Mycroft had _ever_ brought home to his parents.

“Christ,” he said aloud. “No pressure.”

His brain followed the logical path and he found himself considering how much experience Mycroft had. Was he even gay? The topic certainly had not come up, but if anyone would know it would be Sherlock.

On the other hand, it was not out of the realm of possibility for Sherlock to deliberately set up a situation to make his brother uncomfortable. On the other _other_ hand, Sherlock was the one with the most to lose in this scenario – surely he wouldn’t sabotage himself?

 _No more_ , he told himself. This going round and round was driving him crazy. There were only another four days to survive. Four days until Christmas, a couple of days at the Holmes’ house, and then…

He blinked up at the ceiling. _Then what?_ Was Sherlock going to tell everyone about their subterfuge? How would his parents react? Assuming John reacted favourably to Sherlock, he’d probably be quite okay with it, but if John wasn’t prepared to accept Sherlock, he might be more than a little pissed with Greg about his role.

“No more,” Greg told himself aloud.

“It’s like an undercover job. Just go with it. Be flexible.”


	2. One Week Before Christmas

Greg was just wrapping his head around a new case, and trying to deflect questions about how he’d had so much leave approved at such late notice, when things changed again.

It was a typical London day – freezing and wet, undecided whether to snow or rain or something in the middle. Normally Greg wouldn’t pick up a new case so close to his leave but between other staff already on leave and a rash of questionable deaths in the homeless community, he’d had no choice but to spend a large proportion of his day in a filthy alleyway full of half-frozen puddles of what he fervently hoped was water.

Experience told him otherwise.

His work shoes had never been entirely waterproof, and hours of trudging back and forwards between Anderson and Sherlock – trying to keep the peace and get them all out of there before another homicide was committed – had soaked them through. Sherlock, John and Anderson were all equally irritated, and the constant sniping at each other had rubbed on Greg’s last nerve. He’d caved, cadging a cigarette from a smirking crime scene tech, the first draw familiar and guilt inducing. When the nicotine hit his bloodstream he felt himself calm a little, though he was definitely cross at both Sherlock and John for riling Anderson so badly he forgot to label several pieces of evidence properly.

By the time he knocked off – chilled through, wanting another cigarette and annoyed about it – it was dark outside and had settled into a definite sleet against his office window. Perfect for a late afternoon walk home. Of course today was the day the Tube strike affected his line. Sighing, he shrugged on his coat, still damp and smelling slightly of the alleyway before looking around for his scarf.

He’d last seen it in the alleyway, when he’d removed it to stop Sherlock whining about how he’d left his own scarf at home.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered. Sherlock had either taken it home or left it somewhere. Regardless, Greg wasn’t going to be able to wear it home.

“Hardly appropriate language for an officer of the law.” The voice came from his doorway, familiar and amused.

“Anthea?” Greg blinked at the sight of her. Why would she be here, unless…

“He’s still in the air,” she told him, doing that annoying mind reading thing Mycroft had perfected. “He’ll be arriving at your flat in two hours.”

Greg blinked again.

_Why did he send you to tell me? He usually just shows up and kidnaps me._

Greg was excruciatingly aware that his only contribution to the conversation so far was saying Anthea’s name. Not that his contributions appeared to be necessary, as she continued without him.

“Mr. Holmes feels this meeting is of more of a personal nature,” Anthea explained, amusement dancing around her lips. “Given that he will be imposing on your residence for the evening, he felt some notice would be polite.”

“Yeah,” Greg managed. “Yeah. Shit, a couple of hours, you said?”

_Flat’s a mess, what about dinner, I definitely need a shower…_

“There’s a car downstairs to take you home,” Anthea told him. “If you order in, I will ensure it arrives promptly.”

“I can cook,” Greg said indignantly. “Be better if you got someone to do a Tesco’s run, actually.”

Anthea raised her eyebrows at him, but she nodded. “Certainly. Leave a list with your driver and it will be delivered to your flat.”

“Right,” Greg said. Now that he knew what was going on, he was impatient to get going on it. Recipes were flying through his head – what did he have time to make? What did Mycroft even like? Should he do a pudding too?

“Thanks,” he added as Anthea turned to leave. He followed, and they climbed into matching black cars on the street. Greg immediately pulled his notebook and a pen, writing a list of ingredients as his brain settled on something simple. Well, simple-ish. He wanted to impress Mycroft, he was honest enough with himself to admit it, but there wasn’t that much time, especially when he needed a shower and his flat needed at least a quick going over.

+++

The time evaporated, and Greg was suddenly standing in his much-tidier living room, wishing he’d asked Anthea to let him know when Mycroft was close. It was a couple of hours since Anthea had arrived in his office, so really, he half-expected Mycroft any moment.

As he wondered if he should open a beer or wait for Mycroft – did he even drink beer? – there was a knock at the door.

A precise knock, three raps evenly spaced.

_Mycroft._

Greg’s heart leapt, and he reminded it firmly that this was Not A Date. It was a business meeting, of sorts. Though not about work. With the man he fancied, kind of. Oh okay, a lot. And they would be talking logistics. Logistics of their fake relationship.

And Greg’s traitorous mind jumped to holding hands and pretend intimacy and the possibility of sharing a bed…

The knock came again.

His heart leapt again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, bolting for the door, fumbling with the locks, hoping he was dressed okay.

“Good evening,” Mycroft greeted him.

“Hi, come in,” Greg said, knowing he sounded flustered. As Mycroft entered and took his coat off, draping it over a small overnight case, Greg noticed he was moving differently. His movements were precise, but there was something…slower about him. Softer around the edges. When he turned to his host, Greg saw more, his eyes finding the redness in Mycroft’s eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the faint slackness of his jaw.

He looked exhausted.

“Mycroft?”

“Gregory.”

Greg blinked at him, knowing his confusion was showing, trusting Mycroft would interpret it.

It took longer than he expected.

“In order for our…ruse to work,” Mycroft said, speaking carefully, “a meeting was unavoidable.”

“Have you come straight from the airport?”

“My schedule this week leaves little room for spontaneity, given the leave I am taking.”

Shame washed over Greg. He’d been so caught up in his own role, the effect all this would have on himself and his relationships he had barely considered Mycroft.

_Mycroft’s brother._

_Mycroft’s parents._

Quietly, Greg turned down the lights. He stepped forward, moving slowly. “Would you…if you just got off a plane, would you like…do you want a beer? Something to eat? A shower?”

Greg felt ridiculous offering a shower to Mycroft, but he knew he always felt better washing a flight off his skin. His heart twisted as he waited while Mycroft considered the idea. _Is it too much? Maybe he thinks it’s weird…_

“Your offer is kind,” Mycroft replied cautiously. “Given the time difference I am not sure when I last showered…are you sure it would not be an imposition?”

“Not at all,” Greg replied. “This’ll be easier if we’re both relaxed, anyway. Hang on, I’ll get you a towel.” He left Mycroft for a moment, exceptionally relieved he’d gone all out and given the whole flat a once over.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, when Greg returned. “I had anticipated a change of clothes but a shower will be welcome.”

“Take your time,” Greg told him. As Mycroft moved into the bathroom, Greg decided to kick on with dinner. He was almost done, but when he’d had to choose between finishing the salad and vacuuming, he’d rationalised that he could always cook with Mycroft here.

Right now, it gave his nervous fingers something to do as he tried very hard not to imagine Mycroft unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, checking the water temperature before stepping under and allowing the water to cascade over his body…

Greg concentrated until his mind told him the feta was practically microscopic – he could probably stop crumbling it now. He forced himself to stop, instead assembling the rest of the salad and setting the table. He’d opted for a familiar recipe he could assemble without too much fuss – grilled tuna steaks and a salad, and a chocolate pudding. Fairly safe.

Greg was just choosing music when Mycroft appeared almost silently in the doorway. He still looked tired but some of the discomfort was gone from his shoulders. Greg’s eyes roamed over Mycroft, taking in the details.

His suit was perfect, of course, the new shirt pale blue instead of white. Greg thought absently that it brought out his eyes. No, he told himself, now is not the time to start admiring the view again. He was a little disappointed the tie and jacket were still in place; he’d been quietly hoping for something to indicate a little more relaxation. Mycroft was still dressing himself for battle.

“Feel better?”

“Much,” Mycroft replied. “Thank you.” His voice was still tired, but the stress had faded out, blurred into something more relaxed.

_Not enough to leave the tie behind, though._

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Greg murmured. “There’s wine if you want it, or sparkling soda if you’d rather?”

“Soda, please,” Mycroft requested. He gave a slight smile. “Wine would only have a soporific effect at this point, I am afraid.”

“No problem,” Greg said, pouring them each a glass. “I probably shouldn’t either. Early start tomorrow.”

“I won’t keep you late,” Mycroft said. He had sipped at his drink, and now one finger traced the base of the glass. “I did not mean to impose, but I felt that there were so many details to be discussed it would be easier to do so in person.”

“Don’t apologise,” Greg told him. He concentrated for a moment on serving the fish without dropping it, hoping his timing had been right and it was cooked properly.

As he brought the meals three steps across the kitchen, he added, “I appreciate you making time for this. I mean, John’s not an idiot, and we’re going to have to fool him for at least a little while.” He grinned a little self-consciously. “Depending on what you were thinking of telling everyone.” He was all too aware of Mycroft watching as he placed the meals on the table and sat down opposite.

Mycroft hummed, considering. “This is excellent,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” Greg replied, cutting into his own fish. _Thank goodness it’s done right_. “Just something quick. There’s pudding for after if you’re interested, too.”

“Under usual circumstances I would decline,” Mycroft said with a slight smile, “however my defences are down, so I may have no choice but to indulge.”

“That’s the spirit,” Greg told him, grinning.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Greg asked, “So, did you have any thoughts about how we should go about doing this? It’s your family, and I’ll probably never see them again. You need to be comfortable with whatever we come up with.”

Mycroft thought for a moment.

“My parents are far too perceptive for comfort,” he said, obviously choosing his words carefully. “We will have to be completely consistent in our story. My mother in particular is sure to be suspicious of the situation.”

“I’m guessing you don’t bring people home to meet your parents too often,” Greg said.

“Not often, no,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg sat in silence for a second. “I feel like I should thank you,” he said. When Mycroft looked confused he explained, “You’re putting a lot of trust in me.”

“Am I?” Mycroft said.

“Well, yeah,” Greg said. “Not that either of us really have a choice, Sherlock being Sherlock.” He grinned a little, relieved to see Mycroft’s expression still soft. “I mean, we could have said no.”

A thought occurred to him all of a sudden. “You could have probably just figured out what time you’d need me and sent a car for me to just arrive,” he said, watching Mycroft carefully. “I could have been in and out in ten minutes, if you just wanted the song done.”

“I could have,” Mycroft agreed.

Were his cheeks a little pinker? Greg couldn’t be sure.

“When Sherlock approached me regarding this plan,” Mycroft said, setting his knife and fork carefully together, “I have never seen him so personally invested in the thing he was asking me to do.”

“Right,” Greg said. He wasn’t yet sure how this related to why Mycroft had asked him to pretend…whatever they were going to pretend.

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock rarely asks permission, as you would know. When he does ask favours, they tend to be of the, ‘ensure I do not serve prison time’ variety. I don’t remember the last time he asked for something he actually desired for himself personally.”

“Right,” Greg said again. There was more to this, he just had to be patient. Let Mycroft tell the story in his own time.

“I know my brother better than I know anyone…I can read Sherlock exceptionally well, and I could tell he was sincere.” Mycroft paused. “I could also tell he did not expect to gain my help in this.”

Greg frowned. “Why would he ask, if he expected you to say no?”

“I believe he began like a true negotiator, asking at first for what he thought was out of reach, hoping I would agree to a lesser role, such as that you just suggested. Helping with the logistics without putting myself…’on the line’, I believe the phrase goes.”

“Okay,” Greg said, beginning to see where this was going. It was surprising – he hadn’t expected Mycroft to make that decision.

“I care deeply for my brother,” Mycroft said, long fingers making minute adjustments to his knife and fork. “When he spoke about his attachment to John, I saw an opportunity to demonstrate my support.”

“By putting yourself on the line,” Greg finished, nodding. It made sense, though the surprise was still there. He had not realised Mycroft was so emotional about his brother; for all the support he gave, Greg had assumed there was a level of guilt or responsibility driving it.

_Perhaps not, then._

“Fair enough,” Greg said, finishing up his own meal. “In that case, it’s a double thank you. Trusting me in something so important.”

“I’m pleased you view it as such,” Mycroft replied.

Silence settled over the table. Greg wondered what Mycroft was thinking about. His brother? Whether trusting Greg was a mistake?

“So,” Greg said, “what’s the plan, then?”

Mycroft considered the question. “I believe it will be easiest to tell everyone that we are…seeing each other. Friendship would not be enough of a motivator for me to invite you to Christmas, in my opinion.”

“Agreed,” Greg agreed. He could see Mycroft’s discomfort and for some reason it was amusing, he felt fondness rising in his chest.

_We’re doing this together, remember._

“So,” Greg said, “what’s the backstory? I’m assuming you’ve been thinking about it.”

“I believe our relationship will need to be quite recent to convince John,” Mycroft said. “Although it will be imperative to strike a balance between convincing John and stressing the significance of our association. My parents will need to be convinced of the significance of our relationship to accept your presence without questioning it too deeply. As you pointed out earlier, I do not often bring someone home at Christmas.”

“Or ever?” Greg asked tentatively.

“Or ever,” Mycroft agreed.

A silence fell, and a whiff of chocolate told Greg he should rescue the pudding from the oven. He stood suddenly and attended to it, placing the dish on the sink. As he turned, shucking the oven gloves, Mycroft was right behind him, awkwardly holding the dirty plates.

“Ta,” Greg said, quickly loading the dishwasher. “So, we’ve been dating since…Halloween?” Greg said tentatively.

“October fifth,” Mycroft said. “We did dine together that evening.”

“We did?” Greg said. _You remembered the date?_

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “At Cicero, you liked the fillet of beef and chocolate pudding.”

“Oh yeah,” Greg said. “So, that was a date, then?”

“Are the details particularly important?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, if I’m driving down there with John, he’s going to have plenty of time to ask me about it,” Greg said. “I could make it up and tell you about it later, if you want.”

“That could be acceptable,” Mycroft agreed cautiously. Greg could see he was holding something back.

“What?” Greg said. Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “I can tell there’s something wrong,” Greg said. “I can see it in your,” he waved one hand vaguely up and down, “you, I guess.”

“My…me?” Mycroft asked, bewildered. One hand smoothed down his waistcoat nervously.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Come on, you’ve gotta be honest with me if this is going to work,” It sounded slightly more like he was talking about their relationship rather than this subterfuge. Greg ignored it, concentrating on serving the pudding and finding the cream in his fridge.

“You and John are…friends,” Mycroft said.

“Yes we are,” Greg said. Mycroft’s hesitance might be irritating but for the vulnerability Greg could glimpse on his face.

“I’m not sure how open you would be sharing details of our…relationship,” Mycroft said. His cheeks were definitely pink now.

“Ah,” Greg said. “Well, we do share some of that stuff. Can’t see it happening with Sherlock around, so I think we’d be safe.” He smiled, hopefully reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I won’t be indiscreet. I wouldn’t be having that kind of conversation with John without running it past you. And definitely not with Sherlock.”

The shudder that ran through Mycroft also ran through Greg. Their eyes met and Greg grinned, his heart leaping as Mycroft also smiled. “At least I know we both feel the same way about that.”

The shared moment was warm and oddly intimate, the scent of chocolate threading through the air.

_If we were together, I’d kiss him now, and hug him._

“And this is why I have been confident putting this in your hands,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled at him. “And that is why I thanked you,” he said. “With pudding, mainly.” They took their desserts to the table, Greg adding plenty of cream, Mycroft hesitating before adding a small spoonful to his own bowl.

They ate in silence for a few moments until Mycroft said, “Was there anything else specific you feel we should determine?”

Greg thought about it as he worked through his pudding.

A dozen questions raced through his mind. _Will your family expect us to hold hands? To kiss? To share a bed? Would we actually share a bed? What do you wear to bed? What will happen when Sherlock’s plan is done? Will I go home, will we tell everyone it was a ruse…_

“There is one thing,” he said carefully, taking his empty bowl to the sink. “When John asks – and I know he will – why have we been keeping this a secret?”

Mycroft looked at him. “If we were…seeing each other, would you be prepared to be open about the fact?”

Greg turned, considering the question as he leaned against the kitchen bench. He wasn’t flamboyant, rarely sharing much of his personal life at work. But Sally knew he’d dated men, and he was pretty sure a few others had made the connection over the years. Nobody had ever asked directly, and he hadn’t felt the need to be that open.

“If it were entirely up to me, which it wouldn’t be, then, yeah,” Greg said slowly, watching Mycroft’s expression change. A flicker of surprise at his answer.

“Would it not be?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Pretty sure it’s two people’s decision,” Greg said. This conversation felt odd, like far more important that any hypothetical conversation was entitled to be. Important, though. “It would be up to us both. Together.”

Mycroft considered that for a long time. “I would not sure I would be comfortable with anything particularly public,” he said, voice close and careful.

Greg nodded. He’d imagined so.

“Well,” he said, “a few days from now, and we can put this whole thing behind us.” He smiled a tight smile, the words sitting uncomfortably in his mouth and ears. Mycroft shifted too, and Greg wondered if the same discomfort was affecting him, too.

“Anyway,” he said, turning to the pudding. “Tempt you with seconds?”


	3. Christmas Eve Day

One week later and Greg was staring at the clock on his desk, willing it to turn over to 3pm, the time he’d be free to go. To start the craziest Christmas he’d ever agreed to.

“Out you go,” Sally said, leaning into his doorframe. “Off to your sister’s place, right?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He’d forgotten what he’d told everyone, but Sally obviously hadn’t. “Should be good.”

“Of course it will,” Sally told him, “you’ve got ages off. Go on,” she urged him, grinning, “see you in the new year.”

Greg shook his head, matching her grin as he picked up his coat. “Have a good one,” he said. _Not too much madness,_ he meant, and he knew she understood.

“Get out,” she said good naturedly.

As he passed, Greg punched her in the bicep, a friendly ‘keep safe’ between colleagues.

Walking down to the tube, Greg was glad he’d left his stuff at Baker Street that morning. The weather was freezing, and his bags would have slowed him down, not mention the soaking they’d have received on the way.

“Finally,” Sherlock greeted him as he clomped his way up the stairs, shaking water from his hair.

“Yeah, hi,” Greg said pointedly. “Just visit the loo and I’m ready to go.”

“Cab’s here!”

Greg rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s grumbling, audible even from the bathroom. He washed his hands as quickly as he could, nodding at John as he strode out, ignoring the smirk on John’s face.

“Looking forward to the drive?” John asked.

“Oh yeah,” Greg replied, rolling his eyes. “Two hours of Sherlock bored and trapped sounds fantastic. Can’t wait.”

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t slept properly all week, he’ll probably drop off before we’re past Hyde Park,” John said with a grin.

“Oh, and you know that for a fact? His sleeping habits?” Greg asked. A wild hope surged in him – maybe this whole charade could be avoided if Sherlock and John had finally…

“He’s been playing for hours every night,” John said. “Pretty sure he’s awake while he’s doing it.”

“Right,” Greg said. _Darn it._

“Well, let’s get comfortable,” John said. “Sherlock’s in the cab already, if we take too long God knows what he’ll say to the driver.”

“Fair call,” Greg replied, grabbing his bag and following John down the stairs.

“Thought you said it was a cab,” Greg remarked. This large town car, with enough space for the three of them to sit comfortably in the back, was hardly a standard London cab.

“Close enough,” John replied, settling in beside Sherlock. “Mycroft can be useful for some things.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, taking the facing seat. The topic of Mycroft made him shift uncomfortably, and he saw John’s smirk reappear on his face. A quick glance at Sherlock showed him absorbed in something on his phone.

“Alright,” Greg said with a sigh, the car pulling out into the traffic. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

John sat back, clearly enjoying this. “So,” he said, drawing the word out.

Greg sat, waiting for John to get on with it.

“You and Mycroft, then?” John asked, his tone heavy with meaning.

“Christ, you’re not going to talk about it, are you?” Sherlock said petulantly, eyes still locked on his phone.

“Yes we are,” John told him. “You agreed to sleep anyway, remember?”

“Yes,” Greg answered the question. He wasn’t going to give any extra information. Probably better to just answer the questions put to him. Kind of like being on the other side of the interview desk at work. The idea amused him, and he allowed it to show on his face. John’s grin widened, too. Good, at least this wasn’t going to be weird.

_Well, too weird._

“How long’s that been going on, then?”

“Few months,” Greg told him. “We haven’t caught up in a while, have we?”

“Evidently not,” John retorted.

His gaze was assessing, and Greg had the uncomfortable recollection that John was far more astute than was absolutely necessary.

“Well you must be happy with that, then,” John said finally.

“Yeah, I am,” Greg agreed.

“Pub nights won’t be so much fun though,” John ribbed him, “what with the lack of pining after a few pints.”

“Shut up,” Greg said, hoping he sounded good natured and not desperate. He could feel his face reddening and just hoped it would come across as general discomfort with the topic of conversation.

“You’ve been interested in my brother for how long precisely?” Sherlock’s voice broke into their conversation. His face tilted up, eyes a second behind, raking carefully over Greg’s face as though picking up evidence.

Greg stared at him. “A while,” he answered, knowing he sounded evasive, knowing Sherlock would pick it up. The blue eyes narrowed, and Greg shifted again. Bloody Sherlock, asking questions even when it wasn’t real, even when it didn’t matter.

“Couple of years at least, right Greg?”

Greg scowled at John, giving away information Sherlock certainly did not need.

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured, and to Greg’s immense relief, he turned and closed his eyes, ignoring both John and Greg.

“Figured it out ages ago, he reckons,” John said, nodding at Sherlock.

Greg studied him, curious if he could see anything to indicate John might welcome the surprise Sherlock was going to spring on him in two short days. John looked amused, fond…Greg couldn’t tell _how_ fond, though. He knew the connection between detective and blogger was complex, deeper than most flatmates, or friends, for that matter. John could read Sherlock with an almost unsettling accuracy, and the detective for all his solitude, valued John above all others.

Greg had absolutely no idea how it was going to go. He could only hope John would forgive his role, whatever happened.

“So,” he asked, “are you going to give me the low-down on this whole thing? How many Christmases have you been to now?”

“A few,” John said. He thought for a moment. “They’re very different to Sherlock and Mycroft. Mrs. Holmes will ask you to call her Mummy, or Violet. Mr Holmes won’t, but she’ll insist you call him Siger.”

“Right,” Greg replied. _Violet and Siger._

“She’s smart – frighteningly smart – but loses her glasses every day. Lovely, but scatter-brained. Drives Sherlock mad, and probably Mycroft too, though I’ve never asked.”

“Okay,” Greg said.

John glanced over at Sherlock, apparently satisfied he was asleep, because he leaned over, speaking quietly now. “Sherlock would never admit to it, but he loves Christmas. The tradition, the sentiment,” John grinned to himself, “the sugar cookies. It’s his parents that drive him crazy. They’re very…tactile. Affectionate. He hates that.”

His smile faded. “Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched a lot,” he said, voice dropping even further. “Only…particular times. Situations.”

Greg nodded. For the drunken half confessions of their pub nights, this was a far more intimate moment – a glimpse into the Sherlock John knew. It gave Greg the whisper of a possibility…maybe tomorrow would work as Sherlock wanted it to.

“Do you think…does that sound like Mycroft?” John asked, his question tentative. “I don’t mean to pry, I mean…I just wonder sometimes how similar these two are. I can see it in Sherlock…”

“…but not Mycroft,” Greg finished for him. He looked out the window for a few moments, wondering how to answer the question. He was hyper aware of the promise he’d made Mycroft – not to discuss their personal life, fictional as it might be.

“They’re far more alike than they’d like to admit,” Greg said finally. “I think Mycroft finds it, relationships I mean…challenging. Maybe like Sherlock. Although I can’t read Sherlock like you can, so…” he shrugged. He didn’t feel like he’d betrayed the confidence Mycroft had bestowed on him, but it was a thin line.

“Mycroft’s hard to get to know, but it’s worth it.”

“Can I ask what brought you together?” John’s question was far less gossipy than earlier, and Greg found himself answering seriously. They were mates after all; John would think it strange if Greg refused to answer anything at all.

“He’s not as prickly as he comes across,” Greg said, taking words carefully. “We fell into the habit of meeting to talk about Sherlock, usually over dinner.” He shrugged; this was all true so far. “Late nights, a couple of drinks, our conversations would wander.” Real memories came to him, and Greg found himself smiling. “He’s funny, when he relaxes. Dry humour, and black as anything. We’ve got a lot in common, when we get talking.”

“So one thing led to another,” John finished for him.

“Something like that,” Greg agreed. “We complement each other. Fill a space in each other, I dunno.”

His heart wrenched to realise he’d been telling the truth about his impressions of Mycroft. The truth about what they could be to each other, too. Not that it could ever happen, he reminded himself. _This isn’t real, remember?_

Greg looked out the window on purpose, hoping like hell John thought he was lost in happy memories, rather than ruing things that would never happen.

+++

When they pulled up a long, well maintained driveway, Greg knew his heart was thumping. The house was lit up against the early darkness, light mist visible as the beams of light passed through.

Just as Greg was wishing he would see Mycroft –and his umbrella – stepping out to greet them, two well-dressed men emerged from the huge front door, bearing umbrellas.

“Footmen,” John muttered as they made their way to the car.

“Couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” Greg replied, nodding to the first guy, leaving John to wake Sherlock and drag him out of the car.

“Thanks, mate,” Greg said as they made it into the foyer.

“Of course, sir,” came the reply. The man left him waiting as he returned to the car, most likely to collect bags.

Greg was still waiting on John and Sherlock to appear and guide him as to what the hell he did next when the silence was broken.

“You must be Gregory!”

The voice came from across the foyer, a delighted exclamation from a woman who must be Mycroft’s mother. Beaming, she descended on him, arms wide and welcoming.

“Mrs. Holmes,” Greg greeted her, aiming for a handshake but being brushed summarily aside as she swept him into exuberant kisses on both cheeks. “Please call me Greg.”

“Oh, of course, Mycroft always was a formal one,” she gushed. “I’m Mummy, or Violet if you prefer.” Her perfume enveloped him, and he smiled down at her, registering long flowing clothes and shrewd eyes. “Welcome to Musgrave Hall!”

“Thank you for having me,” Greg said. He was saved from anything more by the arrival of John and a grumpy looking Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Holmes cried, giving her son the same treatment, though with a long hug included.

He looked resigned, enduring the treatment, rolling his eyes at John and mouthing, ‘help me’.

“And John, so good to see you again!”

“Hello Violet, it’s lovely to see you,” John said. His social manners were far more evident than Sherlock’s and he made polite noises until Sherlock huffed impatiently.

“Your father’s just out in his shed,” Violet addressed Sherlock. “He promised he’d be back inside in time to dress for dinner.”

Greg felt his eyebrows lift at the idea of dressing for dinner – he’d brought his best suit, yet it was hardly formalwear. Before he could panic, Violet met his eye.

“Don’t worry dear, it’s just us old fashioned ones being stuffy and formal. Siger’s woodworking, so he needs to change unless we want woodchips in our soup.” She smiled at him. “You’re welcome to freshen up, of course, but please don’t make any special effort. Our main celebration will be tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mycroft mentioned it,” Greg ad-libbed.

Violet’s eyes lit up again at the mention of her eldest son. “His helicopter will be landing sometime around dinner this evening,” she told him. “Hopefully he will make it for at least one or two courses.”

“I hope so,” Greg said.

_One or two courses? Jesus Christ._

“We’ll be upstairs until dinner,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s hand and tugging him away.

“Sherlock!” Violet protested, but she waved him off.

“Did you have plans for before dinner?” Greg asked politely. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not a single thing,” Violet assured him. She leaned in conspiratorially. “We hire a full staff for Christmas. Usually it’s just Siger and I, with a housekeeper and a cleaner, of course, but it’s so nice not to have to do anything over Christmas. Everything is taken care of and I can just enjoy having my sons home.”

“Well, that’s lovely,” Greg said. His head was reeling a little at the idea of hiring so many people just because you could over the holiday season.

“Now, I’m sure Mycroft has either given you a complete itinerary or nothing at all,” Violet said, suddenly showing her shrewd understanding of her son.

“Not a thing,” Greg admitted.

“He doesn’t always think, that boy,” she said fondly, and Greg had to hold in a chuckle at the use of the word ‘boy’ to describe Mycroft.

“True,” Greg murmured.

“Well. Dinner this evening will be at eight, with drinks in the library at half past seven.” She indicated a door behind Greg. “I generally retire early but I know Siger likes to show off his collection of brandy after.” Her eyes sparkled. “Tomorrow, breakfast is at eight, church service at ten, presents at noon before everyone else arrives around half past one.”

“Very good,” Greg replied, slightly panicking at the idea of presents. He hoped Mycroft had thought of it because the idea had not even crossed his mind after their impromptu dinner earlier that week.

“In the late afternoon everyone else will go home,” Greg wondered who ‘everyone else’ was, but declined to ask, “and we’ll have a quiet evening. Such a lot to do in the morning!” she exclaimed. “Boxing Day is another quiet affair, Siger and I aren’t getting any younger, and the boys generally occupy themselves for the day. The only thing I insist on is our concert in the evening.” She beamed at him.

“Please tell me Mycroft has been practicing, he promised me he was working on something new.”

“Ah yes, Mycroft mentioned that,” Greg said, glad to be on truthful ground again. “Won’t let me listen, but I’m sure he’s got something ready to go.”

“Sherlock will play his violin, of course, and Mycroft a piece or two on the piano. Do you play, Greg?”

“Nothing particularly well, I’m afraid,” he said. “I do sing, though it’s been a while.”

_Had Mycroft not mentioned Sherlock’s plan to his mother?_

“Oh, how lovely! I’m sure we can convince you to sing us a little something. Mycroft is a brilliant pianist, he can accompany you,” Violet said, unwittingly setting up Sherlock’s scenario almost exactly.

“Um, I’ll talk to Mycroft,” Greg told her, wincing internally at the whole thing.

“Of course,” she said. “Why don’t I show you upstairs? Thomas will have taken your bags up already. You’re welcome to rest and freshen up or wander downstairs, explore any of the rooms on this floor. Library and music room at the front, billiards and conservatory at the back, dining-room and kitchen in the middle.”

Greg nodded, trying to keep up with her both physically as she bounded up the stairs, and mentally as she threw information about the house at him. She nattered on as they strode down the hall, finally stopping at the last doorway.

“Here we go!” she said brightly, opening the door. “Fresh linen, of course, and Sarah aired the room yesterday, but if you need anything let us know.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, seeing his suit bag hung in the open wardrobe and his bag placed at the foot of the bed. “You’re too kind.”

“Make yourself at home,” she replied. “We are so pleased Mycroft has invited you this year, Greg.”

“Me too,” Greg answered automatically. As soon as she turned away he winced at his response. _Me too?_

When the door closed he sank down on the end of the bed, head in his hands. An hour and a half or so until drinks. He could have a lie down and a shower, then with any luck Mycroft would arrive a bit early and save him from too many awkward questions. He ignored the fact that they were clearly sharing a room, and that when Mycroft did arrive, they would be pretending to be together.

Strangely Greg was looking forward to Mycroft arriving. He’d thought it would be easier, these few hours alone, but he felt far too guilty, deceiving not only his friend but his hosts. Once Mycroft arrived, at least he’d have an ally. Maintaining the façade with Mycroft suddenly felt less stressful than doing this on his own.

 _Fuck_. What had he gotten himself into?


	4. Christmas Eve Evening

In the end, Greg took the coward’s way out, sitting in his room until it was time for drinks. He shot Mycroft a quick email, outlining the few details he’d given about their relationship, hoping the other man wouldn’t be too annoyed. He tried to rest, but lying down just gave his mind space and time to envisage possible scenarios for the evening, not to mention the night…

“Nope,” Greg said out loud to himself. _Not a great idea, mate._

A shower was an easy way to kill some time and give his nervous hands something to do. The en-suite was beautifully appointed, of course, and Greg felt much better as he emerged without London’s air clinging to his skin. He had about half an hour to dress before drinks in the library.

_Drinks in the library, Christ…_

He wandered out of the en-suite, towel still slung around his waist, and stopped dead.

“Mycroft,” Greg croaked. Relief flowed through him as he realised he wouldn’t have to face the evening alone, then dried up as he remembered what they were actually here for.

The man was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness. He turned at the sound of his name, eyes widening as he took in Greg’s recently showered and as yet undressed self. Greg was suddenly very aware of the water still cooling his bare skin. His heartbeat, elevated from the moment he first saw Mycroft, ramped up even higher.

“Good evening,” Mycroft offered automatically. He looked into Greg’s eyes for a second before turning away a little, eyes determinedly on the wallpaper to his left.

“I wasn’t expecting you yet,” Greg murmured. He knew he was blushing, but made himself walk over to his suitcase. Thank God he’d had the foresight to lay out his clothes, which made for an easier time of it getting dressed.

“I delegated my last meeting of the day,” Mycroft replied. He glanced at Greg, turning away again for a long beat, enough for Greg to step into his trousers. “I was reluctant to leave you alone with my family for too long.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. It was oddly comforting to know Mycroft had been so considerate. “Haven’t met your dad yet, but your mum seems nice.”

“I’m sure she was very enthusiastic to meet you,” Mycroft said dryly, finally facing Greg again. “And my brother was not too difficult?”

“He slept most of the way, then dragged John off to their bedroom as soon as we arrived,” Greg told him.

“Ah,” Mycroft replied.

“John was a bit nosy, but I didn’t give him anything concrete,” Greg said. “Did you get my email?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft replied.

“Hardly going to make this any more difficult for you than I have to,” Greg said. He was dressed now, in a nice shirt and charcoal trousers. “This do for dinner? Your mum said nothing fancy, but I think we might have different scales for that kind of thing.”

“Quite suitable,” Mycroft said. He hesitated. “I did have another reason for arriving earlier. I felt there was an area we did not discuss in our conversation, which will be relevant and might have exposed our ruse had we not agreed to the parameters beforehand.”

Greg blinked, translating.

_We still need to hash out a few things before drinks._

“Sure,” he said.

Mycroft looked…nervous? No, apprehensive might be a better word…or embarrassed. Greg wasn’t sure.

“I hope the sleeping arrangements will not be too objectionable,” Mycroft began, eyes flicking to the only bed in the room. “My mother was…insistent on the point.”

“Not a problem,” Greg replied.

Mycroft blinked.

_Did he expect me to object on some level?_

“Very well,” Mycroft said. Greg watched him take a deep breath and say in a rush, “We have not discussed the level of casual intimacy with which we would be comfortable. We should do so before we appear for drinks in,” he checked his watch, “fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” Greg said. That whole sentence certainly warranted the awkwardness Mycroft was projecting. “Have you ever done any undercover work, Mycroft?”

“A small amount, early in my career,” Mycroft admitted.

“But you’re familiar with the concept.”

“I am, yes.”

“Did you work alone, or with a team?”

“My missions were primarily solo, as I prefer not to rely on others…ah.”

Greg could see when the penny dropped and Mycroft could see where he was going. He stepped closer, looking intently into Mycroft’s eyes. “Trust is the word here. I’m basically going to go along with however you want to do this. It’s your home, your family. You need to be comfortable with what happens. That is my main focus, and I will support you in it, alright?”

Mycroft blinked back at him. Almost of its own accord, his head slowly nodded.

“Right,” Greg said. “All things considered, I don’t have any hard limits. We’re talking about being in public with our family. I trust you to take the lead on this?”

Mycroft was looking at him like…

“It has been a long time since someone has placed their unquestioning trust in me, Gregory.”

Greg shrugged. “What can I say, you’re trustworthy to me.”

Grey eyes, a little disbelieving, a little uneasy, remained steady. Greg had the odd feeling Mycroft was waiting for a punchline, a caveat…something to temper the simple statement. A brief wave of sadness flashed through Greg as he wondered how long it was since someone had been so explicitly clear with Mycroft. Determined not to meet the low standards Mycroft had obviously been conditioned to expect, Greg held himself still, hoping his silence would be interpreted correctly.

_I trust you. No exceptions._

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“There is only one other thing,” Greg said. He saw Mycroft stiffen. “Can I hug you?”

“You want to hug me?” Mycroft asked, frowning for a brief moment. “Acclimatisation, I assume?”

“Well, mainly,” Greg said. _Make him feel comfortable._ “Today has been weird, by anyone’s standards, though, and I actually could do with a hug anyway.”

“Very well,” Mycroft agreed cautiously.

They both stepped forward, Greg sliding his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He discovered his head was exactly the right level to rest against Mycroft’s shoulder, turning his face inward to press his cheek against the smooth grain of Mycroft’s lapel. He could feel Mycroft’s chin resting against his temple and he sighed, his body relaxing, feeling Mycroft relax too. As moments passed, Greg felt the slow increase in body temperature that came with a prolonged hug.

It was an overload of sensory information which Greg drank in gladly. Mycroft’s scent, something subtly masculine, softened from hours of wear against his skin. The tension in his arms, slowly draining away as he relaxed against Greg’s body. His breath trickling gently down the side of Greg’s face, tickling his ear. The slight abrasion of fabric against the side of his face where Mycroft’s lapel folded under.

Greg could feel his own breathing settle into a slow, steady cadence, matching Mycroft’s until they moved as one entity. It was a long time since he’d stood like this, in a hug for hug’s sake; he’d forgotten all the little details of it, how intimate it could be, just occupying the same space for a while. He and Mycroft were almost the same height, but the slight advantage Mycroft had allowed Greg to feel his presence above as well as around. He felt enveloped, something he had only experienced with taller partners – and they had all been men.

“Do not take this as opposition to our position, however I am not sure how long you intend us to remain here.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. It rumbled through his chest, making Greg smile – another thing he’d forgotten – how many more senses were involved when someone you were hugging spoke aloud.

“Just long enough to get comfortable being in each other’s space,” Greg replied. He felt Mycroft nod, and they stood for a few more seconds before Greg spoke again.

“Trust me?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied immediately.

“Good. Close your eyes.” He felt Mycroft freeze, then relax. “Remember, this is natural. This is us. People in a new relationship are always aware of each other. Their body language links them even from across the room. They look for each other, communicate through glances, smile at each other.”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. “I am quite aware of the meaning of body language.”

“Good,” Greg said. “Because subtlety is going to be far more important. Nobody’s going to expect us to end the night snogging in a corner. Although…”

He took a deep breath and pulled back, enough to look at Mycroft.

The pale grey eyes met his, a little soft, a little quizzical.

“Trust me?” Greg asked. He was deliberately pouring affection into his gaze, and trust and warmth and all the things he remembered from the beginning of a relationship. Each was rooted in genuine emotion for Mycroft – a detail he was barely prepared to admit to himself right now, let alone share with Mycroft.

“I trust you,” Mycroft repeated.

Greg smiled at him, raising one eyebrow a little in encouragement as he brought his hands around, sliding up to rest on Mycroft’s chest. “You know your family best. If you think they are suspicious, or need a little convincing, I trust your judgement.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose as high as Greg had ever seen them. His eyes searched Greg’s for a long moment before he nodded slowly.

“Good,” Greg said. He smiled and made to step back, but Mycroft’s arms did not give.

“One thing more,” Mycroft said. “Mistletoe is certain to feature in the decorations downstairs.”

“Right,” Greg said, swallowing. His eyes dropped to Mycroft’s mouth, knowing what Mycroft was thinking. “I trust you,” he whispered, deliberately not moving. Mycroft needed to do this, to make this move. Needed to know Greg trusted him and would follow his lead.

Without another word Mycroft leaned forward, pressing his lips to Greg’s. It was surer than he’d expected, with an edge of desperation; Greg leaned into it, following Mycroft’s lead as he’d promised.

It was heaven.

+++

In the silence, a tiny whine escaped. A small part of Greg’s brain was trying to remind him that this wasn’t real, that he needed to hold back, but it was largely drowned out by the thundering of his pulse in his ears. Two seconds later and Greg  could barely remember his own name.

If this was acclimatising, in case they had to kiss under mistletoe sometime, Greg understood why Mycroft wanted to do it here. And he was glad for it; there would be no hiding this was their first kiss. Mycroft had made that noise, and Greg responded, hands winding up to cup his face and the back of his neck, pulling him in closer, gasping with the shock of how good it was.

Every reaction triggered another, until Mycroft was pulling Greg close, pressing their bodies together. They were both panting now, whines and groans threading through the gasps as each tried combinations of lips and teeth and tongues. Greg had no idea how they had gone from ‘we’d better get this out of the way’ to such desperation in so few moments, but he could feel Mycroft’s craving for just a little more, and it swirled through his own veins too, strung tight and tingling as he arched up, wanting more, seeking more.

“Gregory,” Mycroft gasped, and it was the sound of his name that made Greg freeze.

Carefully, he eased back, still holding onto Mycroft, breathing hard, willing his body to stop screaming at him. Something in Greg heaved as he saw Mycroft’s eyes open, bleary and confused until they locked onto Greg’s face, swiftly reading the apology and confusion and fear there.

“Gregory?”

His name again, this time a question.

“Probably better that happened up here,” Greg said, trying for a light tone and knowing he failed miserably.

_Fuck, what was that? Talk about getting too deep in character._

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“Not very convincing as a not-first kiss,” Greg added.

_Or too convincing._

Mycroft’s eyes were still watching, and Greg had the distinct impression he was following Greg’s lead here. There had been more there – far more than practice, far more than trust or ‘I’ll follow your lead’. Mycroft was many things, but he was not a fool; Greg knew he was projecting his awkwardness all over the place, and he desperately wanted to explain, to assure Mycroft it was not an aversion to their kiss that was making him avoid Mycroft’s eyes. But they were expected for drinks very soon and now was not the time for that conversation. Better to maintain the façade right now – out of practice at undercover work rather than poorly restrained lust – and talk later.

“Might have to restrain ourselves downstairs,” Greg said, forcing a bit of a grin. “Overacting might give the game away a little.”

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…_

The moment Mycroft understood was agony. The flash of resignation and hurt was all the worse for the complete lack of surprise in his eyes. Greg felt a small piece of himself break as he saw Mycroft’s acceptance of himself as undesirable before it was hidden away again.

“Of course,” Mycroft said. He took a deep breath, and Greg watched as he found a careful balance between his professional mask and the open vulnerability he had just displayed.

“Mycroft,” Greg said. Now was not the time, and he almost ground his teeth in frustration. “Trust, remember?” was all the words he could find.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, and Greg knew it was not enough. “Shall we?”

+++

“Merry Christmas!” Violet greeted them as they arrived in the library. They were the last to arrive, Greg saw with a flash of guilt.

He nodded to John, standing with Sherlock by the fireplace, and watched with interest Mycroft’s interaction with his mother. She was effusive, and he patient, but the fondness beneath was plain to see. Greg smiled at the sight of Violet fussing over Mycroft, and he caught Mycroft’s gaze only to be thrown an eye roll for the ages. His heart squeezed at the soft look that followed and knew his own expression matched it. No acting required.

“You must be Gregory,” an older man, as tall as Mycroft with a shock of white hair, greeted Greg.

“I am,” he replied. “Mr Holmes, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, meeting someone that can at last convince my elder son there are things worth being late to drinks for,” Mr Holmes said, with a twinkle in his eye.

_Jesus, at least there won’t be any homophobic shit here._

“Ah, yes, my apologies,” Greg replied, knowing his cheeks were burning. “Mycroft has been away for a while…”

“No need to apologise, young man, I remember what it was like at the beginning,” he said. “Let me get you a drink. We have mulled wine, or champagne if you prefer, or there’s soda and lime if you’re not a drinking man?”

“Mulled wine would be great, thank you,” Greg told him.

“Mycroft?” his father asked, moving toward the drinks cabinet.

“Mulled wine will be fine,” Mycroft replied, leaving his mother with Sherlock and John. Greg accepted his drink from Siger, all too aware when Mycroft arrived behind and stood close. He turned, smiling when he found serious grey eyes already watching him.

“Here you are,” Mr Holmes said, passing Mycroft his glass. He turned to the others. “A toast! To family at Christmas!”

“Family at Christmas,” everybody dutifully replied, Sherlock with a roll of his eyes and John a discreet elbow to his ribs.

Greg supressed a smile and turned to Mycroft, who was about to drink.

“Hey,” he said softly.

 Mycroft looked at him, questioning.

When Greg raised his glass, looking to touch their rims together, his face cleared in understanding. Greg was offering the proverbial olive branch, hoping Mycroft could see the apology in his eyes.

_I didn’t mean to hurt you…trust me?_

“Merry Christmas, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly, leaning his glass in to allow them to touch.

Greg smiled, but the sad look in Mycroft’s eyes was clear. _Apology accepted but the moment is not forgotten._ Greg found his smile fading uncomfortably. He swallowed hard, pulling himself back into character, still very aware of Mycroft by his side. Casually, he shifted closer, making sure his shoulder brushed Mycroft’s before easing back.

A glance, the dissolution of some of the sadness; Greg judged it a good decision.

“Mycroft?” Violet appeared as they were drinking from their respective glasses.

“Yes, Mother,” Mycroft said, his eyes shuttering again.

She didn’t speak again, but Greg saw her eyes flicking between the two of them, saw the slight frown crease her brow. Greg eased closer to Mycroft, another brush closing the space between them. They were both looking at Violet but the space between them was thrumming with a tension he could practically taste.

 _Trust me,_ he thought. _Please, trust me with this._

They stood there in silence, Violet’s eyes between the two of them. Greg knew she could feel the something between them, but he did not know what to do. The moment stretched until Greg felt a hand, gentle on the small of his back.

_I trust you._

He sank into the contact, hoping his relaxation wasn’t too evident. Deliberately, he looked at Mycroft, saying, “Why don’t you tell Violet about the waiter at Pellegrino? He told the story about the oysters, remember? I’m sure you said she’d think it was funny.”

Mycroft blinked at him, processing the suggestion.

“Ah yes,” he said, the politician in him coming to the fore. As he started recounting the story to his mother, Greg felt the hand pressing a little into his spine. The touch through his jacket was warm, heating his skin and anchoring him to Mycroft.

It was oddly comforting, knowing Mycroft was touching him like this. Naturally tactile, Greg had long restrained his inclination to casually touch Mycroft when they met. Sherlock was a perfunctory topic of conversation now, a checkpoint to ensure they were still holding up the illusion of only meeting to discuss Sherlock’s life, rather than because they were remarkably well matched and enjoyed their evenings together. They barely touched on his wellbeing before moving onto more interesting topic of conversation.

It was the singularly most frustrating relationship in Greg’s life, and that was saying something, given his regular contact with Sherlock, but he wouldn’t end it for the world. The quiet evenings with Mycroft – and they were always quiet, whether in a private room at his club or in a restaurant or occasionally driving across London in the back of a swanky car – were the highlight of a depressingly mundane life. With any other mate, Greg would be meeting in pubs, playing football; there would be rough hugs, hands on shoulders, the occasional headlock, even at his age. Not to mention the communal showers and sharing lewd stories about nights out (and in) with various partners.

None of those friendships felt as intimate as his time with Mycroft, and they had almost never touched, save the occasional handshake when neither was wearing gloves. He found himself considering his words more carefully around Mycroft, biting back the flippant answers that allowed him to talk all night with pub mates without really saying anything.

Of all the people in his life, Mycroft probably knew him the best. Only he had heard the true cost of Greg’s divorce, the coldness of his father when he’d introduced his first boyfriend, the regret of childless years sliding past. It was possible, even probable John understood more than Greg said during their conversations, but for actual detailed admissions, Mycroft was the one.

And now here he was, standing in Mycroft’s family home, pretending to be his partner at Christmas. His internal voice was telling him how bad an idea this was, blending so much of his own desire into the façade, but it was impossible. How could he not smile when Mycroft looked at him with such affection? It was difficult enough to temper it a little, to appear interested but not entirely lost in emotion. Greg had the distinct impression only Mycroft’s deep belief in his own lack of appeal was stopping him seeing the truth. The saving grace, he tried to tell himself. Mycroft was clearly better actor than he, this soft affection coming far more naturally than their over the top kiss in his bedroom.

_Definitely good we got that out of the way. Maybe he’s not that experienced in the kissing department? I hope he can hold back the enthusiasm if we come across any mistletoe down here tonight._

The conversation drifted around him, the others joining in; Greg even thought he made some kind of contribution. The one certainty was his connection to Mycroft. He knew his eyes were following Mycroft, drifting from fingers to face while that reassuring hand still rested on his lower back, and from the quietly amused glances coming his way, Mycroft was more in tune with him than the conversation, as well. In the few moments he forced his attention across the loose social circle, Sherlock and John were overly aware of each other too. The light, polite conversation of Violet and Mr Holmes carried the increasingly distracted comments from their sons and guests.

“Ah, it appears our meal is ready,” Violet said, the words pulling Greg back to the conversation. A waiter slipped away, evidently having spoken to her.

“We’ll just take a moment,” Mycroft replied. His hand slid down to take Greg’s, and they made their way out of the library, turning left to duck into an alcove in the hall.

Greg breathed deeply. Finding himself suddenly standing very close to Mycroft, his presence looming close in the small space, was almost overwhelming. The wine was not helping either, and he made a mental note to limit his drinking.

_God forbid I make some kind of drunk confession and embarrass us both._

Mycroft’s hand on his elbow brought his focus more sharply on Mycroft, and he waited to hear what Mycroft had to say.

“I hope my father was not overly familiar,” Mycroft said carefully. “He is supportive of both Sherlock and I, of course, but he can sometimes be…”

“He was fine,” Greg said, squeezing Mycroft’s hand without thinking. It felt right, having this contact with him; the skin pressing skin was comforting.

_Mycroft’s skin._

“Are you…how are you doing?” Greg asked. He didn’t want to take advantage but the notion that he could touch Mycroft, would be expected to, up to a point, was tempting to say the least.

“Fine,” Mycroft replied.

Greg looked at him closely. He was anxious about something. “I’m not sure ‘fine’ is the right term,” he said, gently. “But we can do this together, remember?”

Was it his imagination, or did Mycroft’s fingers grip a little, his breath hitch before drawing deeply. “Yes.”

“And just think of the favour Sherlock is going to owe you after this.”

Mycroft huffed an unimpressed laugh at the suggestion. “I doubt he will consider it so.”

“If John says yes,” Greg said, feeling amused but patient, “Sherlock will collect the stars themselves for you.”

Mycroft’s face broke into a disbelieving smile at the notion. Greg waited for the dismissive comment, but instead Mycroft’s face changed, the smile sliding away to be replaced with something far more pensive.

“Do you think so?” The words were whispered, like a child’s request for reassurance.

Greg’s heart heaved at the vulnerability Mycroft was displaying. Surely, he wouldn’t fake that? None of this conversation was part of their ruse. So Mycroft really was asking for his reassurance. There was no doubt their relationship had shifted since this whole idea of Sherlock’s had first arisen, but for the first time, Greg had to admit it to himself.

_This feels real._

He wanted to say something, but the right words wouldn’t come. Silently he slid his arms around Mycroft, hugging him as they had earlier.

“Yes.” Greg pressed the word into Mycroft’s collar, squeezing him tight for a moment, feeling Mycroft’s arms curl around his body. “He already would, you know.”

They stood for what felt like a long time, the air growing warm around them.

“So, dinner?” Mycroft asked finally, his voice muffled into Greg’s hair.

Greg smiled, leaning back so he could look into Mycroft’s eyes. “Starving.”

_I’d kiss you now, if this was real._

Greg swallowed, inordinately pleased when Mycroft kept their hands together.


	5. Christmas Eve Night

“Ah, finally!” Violet cried as Mycroft and Greg arrived in the dining room. Sherlock raised one eyebrow at Greg, the smirk on his mouth mirrored on John. “Far less formal this year, please help yourself to the buffet.”

Greg passed a plate to Mycroft as the conversation at the table continued. “I thought Violet said something about heaps of courses tonight?” he murmured, serving himself a piece of ham and chicken pie.

“A joke, given the informal nature of this meal,” Mycroft replied quietly.

“Right,” Greg said. “Well, I’d have been eating a curry in my pants watching Die Hard, so we’ll have to disagree on the definition of informal, I think.”

Mycroft’s snort of laughter was as delicate as a cat’s sneeze, and Greg turned to him. “Did you just snort, Mycroft?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, his face flushing. “Please do not mention your plans to my mother, however.”

Greg looked at him, wondering how serious he was. The suppressed mirth was enough to make him dissolve into giggles, his plate being lifted from his hand by Mycroft.

“Please, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was strained, and Greg saw how his eyes sparkled too at the ridiculous joke. It felt as natural as breathing to lean in, resting his head against Mycroft’s shoulder as his body shook. Mycroft’s hands on his waist sent a jolt through him, and Greg pulled himself upright.

“Do you think you two could possibly make it all the way to the table without pawing each other?” Sherlock’s voice rang out, cutting through the conversation.

“Oh, hush, Sherlock, they’re obviously enjoying a joke,” Violet scolded him. “Although it would be lovely to dine together, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” Mycroft told his mother, pointedly giving Greg his plate back.

“Sorry,” Greg said, hastily adding veg to his plate before taking the seat beside Sherlock. “Hope I didn’t make you hungry,” he said to Sherlock.

The detective huffed. “I am rarely hungry,” he replied.

“And yet…” Greg indicated the plate before him. It held a small but reasonable meal. “Is that a vegetable, Sherlock?”

Sherlock refused to answer, but John’s voice came across the table. “Violet won’t let him go skating tomorrow if he doesn’t eat properly.”

“Skating?” Greg asked. “Do you have a rink?”

“Oh Greg, of course not,” Violet answered affectionately. “The lake freezes over at this time of year and Sherlock has always loved skating.”

“Ah,” Greg replied.

“It’s the village lake,” Mycroft told him, the amusement in his eyes telling Greg he knew Greg had wondered if it was their personal lake. “A local tradition, if the ice is thick enough.”

“Do you skate?” Greg asked.

“Rarely,” Mycroft said.

“Maybe we could all go,” Greg said. “If I can borrow some skates. Haven’t been in years.”

“Mycroft hates skating,” Sherlock said, sullenly poking at his peas. “Besides, the ice has to be twice as thick to hold him up. He’ll only go if Greg goes.”

“Of course I will,” Mycroft replied stiffly. “My inner ear anomaly makes balance difficult, however I would gladly come skating tomorrow.”

“ _I_ have a perfect physique for figure skating,” Sherlock began, but John finished his sentence.

“And you won’t get a chance to show off this year if you don’t eat.”

Silence fell for a moment and Greg glanced around. Siger was concentrating on his meal; Violet looked exasperated at Sherlock and fondly at Mycroft somehow at the same time; Sherlock was still sullen, but now with a mouthful of peas. John and Mycroft were the most interesting, Greg thought.

John’s face was exactly as Greg imagined a besotted young lover would look; exasperated but fond, watching Sherlock eat his peas with a gentle pride. If he didn’t accept Sherlock on Boxing Day, Greg would eat his hat.

Mycroft, seated opposite Greg, was focussing entirely on his small meal, face set, blank. Greg watched him, his own food pushed to the side of his awareness as he glimpsed the younger version of Mycroft, declining hors d’oeuvres, putting the minimum food on his plate and making himself as small as possible.

_Jesus, is that why you’re so slim?_

“So, Greg,” Violet said, her tone light, “Mycroft tells me you follow the football quite closely.”

It was a clear attempt to change the subject, and Greg took it, drawing John into a surprisingly lively debate with Violet and Siger on the trade of international players within the Premier League. Neither Sherlock – still sulking, though watching John’s animated contributions – nor Mycroft took part in the conversation.

When they drifted on to John’s recent trip to Spain for a medical conference, Greg caught Mycroft’s attention. “Up for seconds?” he said, nodding at the buffet.

“No, thank you,” Mycroft said.

“Well come on, you can help me decide, then,” Greg pressed, grinning when Mycroft reluctantly joined him.

“Ignore Sherlock,” Greg said, pretending to choose between another piece of pie and the baked fish. “For what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft looked at him suspiciously. “You are aware we are unlikely to be overheard here?”

“Yes,” Greg said, “but it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

When no reply came Greg glanced up.

Mycroft looked confused, his frown slight, lips pressed together.

Greg paused, smiled a little – _trust me_ – and reached up to cup the side of Mycroft’s face, looking into his eyes. “Trust me,” he said quietly. He knew they would be seen and not heard, and that this reassurance would be easily understood.

To his enormous surprise Mycroft leaned in, briefly brushing their lips together before moving away. “Thank you,” he said gravely before turning to return to the table.

Gripping his plate Greg forced an indulgent smile, hoping it covered the thundering of his heart.

Before he could follow Mycroft back to the table Violet appeared beside him, beaming. “I am so pleased to have you here,” she said. “I don’t remember the last Christmas Sherlock didn’t try to show up his brother at something. I know it’s merely sibling rivalry,” Greg suppressed a snort at this, “but I can see it affects Mycroft deeply.” She laid one hand on his arm. “He’s very good at hiding himself, but it’s plain you can see through that. I hope one day he listens to you more than his brother.”

“I doubt that will happen soon,” Greg replied. “But I can try.”

“Patience is a virtue,” she told him.

“It is,” he replied.

They both returned to their seats and to Greg’s astonishment Mycroft met his gaze and even returned his tentative smile.

“What was that about?” Sherlock asked his mother bluntly. “I hope you were warning Greg about the embarrassingly large crowd we’ll have here tomorrow.”

“I was just pointing out how lucky your brother is to have someone so lovely,” Violet told him, to the mortification of Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock and the amusement of John and Siger.

“They’re lucky to have each other at all,” Sherlock grumbled. “I deduced their attraction ages ago.”

“No you didn’t,” John disagreed, and Sherlock fell into silence as the conversation turned to the plans for Christmas Day.

+++

Dinner stretched on, a selection of desserts replacing the mains in due course. Greg watched with amusement as Sherlock made a beeline for the tiramisu, having a muffled argument with John about how much was a reasonable serve for one person.

_Like an old married couple._

Tomorrow would be fine. Greg could feel his mouth turning up into a smile, affectionate, as he watched John soak up the attention, the manic energy Sherlock was putting out towards John like a laser as they argued. Neither seemed particularly upset to Greg.

Mycroft, seated beside John, must have noticed the same. The conspiratorial smiles he was now shooting at Greg felt like shots of sunshine, the warmth filling him up alongside the treacle pudding. He’d relaxed as Greg gently encouraged him and Sherlock held his tongue. Greg suspected the pointed glances from John had a lot to do with it and made a mental note to thank him later. Seeing Mycroft at ease again was wonderful, even if he did decline dessert. Tempted as Greg was to serve him some anyway, he didn’t want to draw Sherlock’s attention.

_You look fine to me, sunshine._

Again, Mr and Mrs Holmes carried the conversation, chattering about people and events Greg had never heard of. He made his best effort to keep up, to laugh at Violet’s jokes, but Mycroft was like a magnet, pulling his gaze in. More often than he planned, Greg found his eyes lingering on details. His fingers delicately holding his wine glass. The length of his neck as he turned his head to listen to his father. The flash of his tongue as he placed a morsel of food into his mouth.

It wasn’t until the dessert was over Greg met John’s eyes and realised he had not been as subtle as he’d thought. John had a way of making his thoughts perfectly clear on his face, and a slight smirk and raised eyebrow was all it took to make Greg supremely uncomfortable. He felt his face heat and from the wider smile John was now supressing, Greg’s cheeks must be pink.

_God, it can’t get worse._

Greg’s eyes flicked to Mycroft, who chose that exact moment to look at him in return. The confusion as he looked at Greg and then John made Greg’s face grow warmer. He was as adept as John at communicating without speaking, and Greg read the confusion soften into amusement and affection.

It made his heart thump hard in his chest. _It’s not real. He’s playing a part,_ Greg told himself. It was unconvincing even in his own head. He could feel himself responding before he even knew it, leaning forward, smiling, knowing the affection was passing back to Mycroft through his own gaze.

The atmosphere was still there; something between them that felt far more real than it should. They’d both blurred the lines as the evening progressed, and now it was hard to tell where it sat at all.

Greg saw John’s expression shift as he looked slightly to Greg’s left – at Sherlock. A quick glance and Greg watched with fascination as John convinced Sherlock to eat a little more fruit without saying a word. Mycroft had picked up the conversation with Violet, and Siger now concentrated on refilling wine glasses as Sherlock and John talked without words. Greg felt his mouth turn up, feeling the connection between the two men as their eyes spoke volumes.

_Do they look like Mycroft and I? Are any of us really being entirely honest with each other – or ourselves?_

Greg dragged his eyes away and reached for his water glass.

_Jesus. I’ve had too much wine._

A wave of sadness flowed, a flash before it disappeared, leaving only a lingering dullness to his previous good mood. Greg hoped his smile didn’t falter. Deliberately, he tuned back into the conversation, making sure to say something to Violet. Forcing himself to engage raised his mood – or at least the image of it. A prickling sensation made him all too aware that Mycroft’s gaze rested on the side of his face more than it should for a man engaged in conversation with three people. It took a considerable amount of his self-control not to look at Mycroft, even when the conversation demanded he might.

It wasn’t until Violet started looking at him with concern Greg realised it was just as suspicious to avoid Mycroft as it was to stare.

_And you said you’ve done undercover stuff._

_Amateur._

It was with no end of relief that the evening was cut short – or at least, shorter than he expected.

“Well, I think we could all do with an early night,” Violet said as soon as their dessert plates were cleared. She looked at her sons affectionately, and Greg was strangely pleased when it was extended to himself and John. “You’ve all travelled today, and we know Father Christmas won’t come until you’re tucked up in bed.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes – Greg could feel it without looking, plus John’s look of gentle exasperation was recognisable. Greg locked eyes with Mycroft, wondering how he would react to this. Was this typical for Violet, changing the plans at the last minute?

When Mycroft met his eyes, Greg felt the tension that had slipped away return in force. They were about to go upstairs for the evening. To Mycroft’s room, with its lone bed and acres of awkwardness. To the conversation he’d put off that now seemed more important – and difficult – than ever.

_Jesus._

“Thank you, Violet,” Greg said, as they all rose from the table. “Siger.”

“Of course, Greg,” she said, looking into his eyes. “It’s wonderful to have you here this year.”

“Good night, Mummy,” Mycroft said. She pulled him down to kiss his cheek, and Greg knew immediately she’d whispered something – his face flushed as red as Greg had ever seen. The kicker was Mycroft’s eyes, nervous and embarrassed as they darted towards Greg.

Greg met them, raising his eyebrows, feeling his own embarrassment swell.

 _She’s onto us,_ Greg thought, a desperate laugh burbling up in him. _At least she thinks she is, which is almost as bad._

“Good night,” John said before Sherlock dragged him off.

“Hang on,” Greg said as they started up the stairs, lagging behind Sherlock and John. “Do John and Sherlock share Sherlock’s room?”

“As far as I am aware, yes,” Mycroft replied. Greg’s surprise must have been evident – or deducible – because Mycroft went on, “that is not a guarantee they even sleep in the same bed, given my brother’s lack of sleeping hours.”

“True,” Greg said. “Though I’d bet there’s a decent amount of cuddling going on in there.”

Mycroft winced. “Not something I’d extensively considered.” He opened the bedroom door, allowing Greg to enter ahead of him. “A likely scenario, however. Sherlock is far more tactile than most people would believe.”

“That’s what John said,” Greg agreed. _Interesting_.

They fell silent as Mycroft closed the door. Greg didn’t feel locked in, necessarily. It was more an increased awareness of their proximity. The silence enveloped them, settling an intimacy over them Greg had not noticed as they’d talked on the way up from the dining room.

_Just us now. Not likely to be interrupted. Hours and hours…_

It stretched, deepening as they looked at each other from across the room. When had he crossed to the window? Greg felt the cool wood on his fingertips, feeling behind to orient himself.

Mycroft was still standing beside the door, his whole semblance one of stillness. Greg could almost feel him willing himself to be less visible, less noticeable.

“So,” Greg said quietly. “No mistletoe tonight.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth Greg felt his eyes widen. _Fuck, why did I bring that up?_

“I suspect Mummy would not want to make us too uncomfortable this evening,” Mycroft said quietly. “Rest assured it will adorn a number of doorways tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Greg said. He hesitated, the awkwardness of their position still heavy in the room. “Um, was there anything…anything tonight you wanted to, um, talk about?” He could feel his insides squirming. “I mean, anything from earlier we need to kind of…discuss?”

_Jesus, just stop. Either ask him or don’t._

Mycroft was considering his question, and the length of his thought process made Greg squirm. “I don’t believe so,” he said slowly. “Was there…something you wished to discuss?”

_Yes._

“No,” Greg replied immediately.

_Liar._

“Would you care to use the bathroom first?” Mycroft asked. “I would like to have a shower after my flight.”

“Yeah, that would be great.” Greg grabbed his stuff with relief.

+++

By the time the bathroom door swung open, Greg had succumbed, dozing on the gorgeous mattress. The light cast across his face, rousing him enough to watch the shape of Mycroft cross the room.

 _Proper pyjamas._ _Of course._

Greg was glad he’d thought enough to pack a t-shirt for sleeping. Even in winter he generally slept in just pyjama bottoms, but he didn’t want this to be any more awkward than it already promised to be.

Of course that was before the events of this evening. A confusing swirl of emotions were rolling through him, even more so as he listened to Mycroft. He’d walked out of Greg’s line of vision to the other side of the bed, softly rusting fabric of some kind.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was hesitant, practically a whisper.

In response he rolled over, looking across the bed, hoping his hair wasn’t too ridiculous as he blinked. Greg took in the details of this very private man, dressed in perfectly buttoned pyjamas and looking at him apprehensively.

_Gorgeous._

“Are you…I would be quite comfortable on the chaise…” his voice trailed off.

Greg’s heart heaved at the discomfort in every line of his perfect posture. Hands clenched, back ramrod straight, face set.

_Anxious._

“Don’t be daft,” he said, pulling the covers back. “We’re both too old for that. Your mother would know from your pained expression alone.”

“I am deeply disappointed in your lack of faith in my poker face,” Mycroft murmured. He climbed into the bed.

“True, you do have a pretty good poker face,” Greg allowed. Before he could stop himself he added, “Besides if either of us is moving uncomfortably tomorrow I doubt they’d think we’ve been sleeping on the chaise.”

Mycroft froze, and Greg’s heart skipped as he registered his words.

“Fuck, Mycroft,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

“Thankfully you waited until we were here to express that idea,” Mycroft said, his tone dry. Greg noted with relief that his shoulders had relaxed, and he climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up over his pyjamas. “Though you did manage not to mention your curry and pants option for this evening, for which I was grateful.”

“Oi, that’s a perfectly valid way for a single bloke to spend Christmas Eve,” Greg protested.

The humour on Mycroft’s face was such a switch from the discomfort he’d been showing, Greg couldn’t help relaxing. He allowed himself to roll, pressing his face into the edge of his pillow, chuckling at the situation. He could feel Mycroft’s body heat rolling towards him across the cotton sheets. The intimacy was becoming familiar and Greg wondered if he should be pleased or not.

A mischievous impulse came over Greg and he raised his face to look at Mycroft. Closer than he’d thought, eyes soft, slight shadow over his jaw… “Do you think…” he trailed off deliberately, waiting a beat before he finished, “John and Sherlock will be moving uncomfortably tomorrow?”

Mycroft’s face stilled, then folded into disgust at the idea. Greg didn’t see what happened next; his own laughter bubbled over and his eyes closed. He did hear Mycroft groaned in disbelief, and the sound only spurred his laughter on.

“Sorry,” Greg gasped.

“I don’t believe you are,” Mycroft said, and the feel of his breath over Greg’s neck along with his words made his breath hitch.

“I am,” Greg protested, the laughter trailing away. “A little bit, at least.”

“Please do not mention my brother in that context again,” Mycroft asked. “Or this one, for that matter.”

“When we’re in bed together?” Greg said without thinking.

The silence trailed for a beat longer than Greg expected, dragging anticipation into the atmosphere with it.

“Indeed,” Mycroft whispered.

The humour faded as Mycroft’s voice filtered through Greg’s brain. He raised his head, meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

While he had rolled, Mycroft had not; he still lay on his back, head turned to Greg, hands lying folded on his chest fiddling with the edge of the sheet. Greg still felt the mirth ebbing and flowing gently through him but Mycroft’s face was pensive. To Greg’s astonishment he could read sadness there, and self-restraint.

_Why is he sad? What does he want that he’s not allowing himself?_

“Mycroft?” Greg asked quietly. The potential that had fizzed between them earlier returned with Greg’s careful question. He was more aware than ever of his body, of the angle of his hips, tilted slightly up from the bed, his arm resting so closely to Mycroft the hairs there seemed to stretch out toward him. His own fingers were scrunching the bottom of his pillow as he tried to figure out what was going on.

In the soft light of the bed-side lamp, Mycroft’s face was still, his eyes now moving over Greg’s face. The longing was still there and Greg wondered if Mycroft realised how much he was revealing. He was vulnerable, more open than Greg had seen, and their conversation, joking though it had been, was clearly about one thing.

“Mycroft…” Greg breathed it this time, inching closer, his breath hitching as Mycroft turned his shoulders, bringing his face inwards, only a breath away from Greg’s.

_Jesus, maybe he’s wanting…_

The knock was quiet, but the click of the door opening was loud enough to jerk Greg’s attention toward the door.

“I hope you two are decent,” came a deep voice, and that was all the warning they had before Sherlock slipped through the space, pulling the door closed behind him.

Greg’s heart was now racing for an entirely different reason; he’d been a breath away from kissing Mycroft, then half a breath from rolling him off the far side of the bed to protect him from the intruder.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?” Greg ground out, sitting up. He could feel Mycroft sitting beside him; the hyper awareness was still a thing, obviously. Deep breaths, Greg told himself, but try not to be obvious about it.

_Yeah, good luck with that._

“John is not convinced you two are an item.” Sherlock paced, his voice an angry hiss.

“What?” Greg said at the exact moment Mycroft spoke. “I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock’s withering stare was one of the best Greg had experienced, and right now it was on fire. “The words, ‘I reckon Mycroft and Greg are up to something,’ might have something to do with it,” he snapped.

Mycroft hummed. Greg glanced back to see his grey eyes pinned on his brother. “What do you propose?” he said quietly.

Sherlock looked up from his pacing, frowning at Mycroft. As he met his brother’s eyes the steps faltered, then stopped. Greg had the uncomfortable feeling he was witnessing something intensely personal, but there was no way to extricate himself without making it even more awkward.

Almost a full minute passed before either of them spoke.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured. The disconcerted expression was replaced with a tentative relief. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Greg waited until Sherlock was gone before turning back to Mycroft. “What was that?”

“I offered to make our connection more obvious tomorrow,” Mycroft said calmly.

“You did?” Greg asked. “Don’t you think I should have been part of that conversation?”

“You were right here, Gregory,” Mycroft said. “Why didn’t you speak up?”

The teasing tone was warm rather than cutting, and Greg relaxed.

He rolled his eyes. “Right,” he said, “But I don’t speak silent eye contact, so maybe you could summarise for me?”

Mycroft’s eyes changed as he looked at Greg. Something was troubling him. Greg wondered absently when he’d become so good at reading Mycroft – or when Mycroft had become so incredibly open with him.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked, keeping his voice quiet. He continued to look up at Mycroft, not knowing what he expected to see, or what he wanted to see.

“This is not…what I expected it to be.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “What…did you expect it to be?”

Mycroft’s hand pressed his into the mattress; the contact was comforting, perhaps for both of them. “Less honest,” he whispered.

“Less… _honest?_ ” Greg asked him, the sudden change in conversation disconcerting.

“I must admit I have found this ruse difficult to maintain, even for such a short time,” Mycroft said, the formal language clearly comforting him, his voice strengthening from a whisper. “It is a little too…authentic.”

“Yeah…” Greg said. His heart was a steady beat, hard against his chest.

_Oh Christ, is he saying…I think he’s saying…_

“I can’t be distracted from helping Sherlock,” Mycroft pleaded. His eyes begged Greg to understand. “This is too important to him. It is an opportunity to demonstrate my loyalty to him.” Mycroft’s indrawn breath was ragged. “It may save his life.”

“Of course,” Greg replied. His thumb was stroking Mycroft’s hand in a way he hoped was comforting. It was certainly helping him feel better.

_Don’t tell him it’s mutual. It’ll only muddy the waters. Confuse things. This is important to him._

_And you might be counting your chickens…_

“I am…uncertain how to proceed,” Mycroft admitted. “You have been convincing, I’m sure John’s doubt comes from my own reticence.”

“I thought we’d both been convincing,” Greg replied. “I’d say it’s more his suspicion that I hadn’t mentioned it until this trip.”

“You would have otherwise confided in him?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I mean, even if we wanted to keep things quiet, I probably would have let John know. Besides, Sherlock would have figured it out and told him anyway, right?”

“True,” Mycroft allowed. “Did you have any idea for how to convince John for the next forty-three hours?”

“Well,” Greg said, choosing his words carefully, “It might be easier if we maintained our cover all the time.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Instead of dropping in and out, like we have been doing,” Greg clarified. “If we act like a couple all the time. Even when people aren’t around. We won’t have to worry about forgetting, or anything.”

Mycroft considered Greg’s idea. “And this wouldn’t be an issue for you?”

“Nope,” Greg said, hoping he came across as far more nonchalant than he felt. “I kind of think as long as we trust each other, and we do, then,” he shrugged, leaving the end of the sentence unspoken.

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment, eyes probing deeply as Greg fought to hold the breezy façade he’d created for himself.

“Very well,” he answered eventually.

Greg’s heart jumped. “Well I’m knackered, and if we’re to be up for breakfast at eight, we should probably get some sleep.”

“I fear jetlag will make sleep elusive,” Mycroft said ruefully. He settled down anyway, turning towards Greg. “I will endeavour not to wake you.”

Greg reached over to turn out his light. “I’m sure you won’t.”

He turned back, hearing Mycroft’s regular breathing only centimetres away on his own pillow.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Gregory.”

Greg tucked one hand under his pillow, conscious to keep his elbow from straying, not wanting to startle Mycroft. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, drowsily contemplating how likely it was that they would end up cuddling in the night.

_I hope so._


	6. Christmas Day Morning

Greg groaned as his alarm sounded. He reached for it without opening his eyes, frowning as his hand reached…nothing. He cracked one eye, wondering where he’d left it.

“It’s mine,” a voice said, startlingly close.

The sound woke Greg enough to register all the other things that weren’t right. Mattress gorgeously firm, fresh soft sheets, an arm draped across his middle…

“Mycroft?” he said, hearing the gravel in his throat. “Christ, what time is it?”

“Seven o’clock,” Mycroft replied. Carefully, he pulled his arm away, rolling away from Greg.

Cool air sneaked down the blanket and Greg shivered. When the alarm stopped and Mycroft did not return, Greg rolled instead, taking in Mycroft sitting up in bed, smoothing the sheets over his lap.

“Come back for a bit?” Greg said, blinking the sand from his eyes. “I’m freezing.”

“The house has never been warm,” Mycroft replied. He lay down again, eyes a little apprehensive.

Greg looped one arm over his middle, humming contentedly. “You sleep okay in the end?”

“Surprisingly well,” Mycroft replied. “And you?”

“Yeah,” Greg yawned. “Nice and warm with two in the bed.”

Mycroft twitched uncomfortably but did not move. “Yes,” he said quietly.

His discomfort eased as Greg remained comfortably close. Greg could feel a hand brush his own where it lay over Mycroft’s chest and he smiled to himself.

_Trust._

“Merry Christmas,” Greg murmured. “I forgot for a minute there.”

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft replied, turning his face to Greg.

_Did he kiss my head?_

Greg could feel himself relaxing again, but when sleep crept up, he forced himself to shake it off. “Better get on,” he said finally, sitting up and stretching. “Do you want the bathroom first?”

“Please, go ahead,” Mycroft murmured. “I will use the time to check my emails.”

“No problem, sunshine,” Greg replied, grinning at him. “Better make sure the Empire doesn’t fall over Christmas breakfast.”

Mycroft had started when Greg called him ‘sunshine’, but his wide eyes narrowed a little in soft exasperation at the dig.

“I’m sure my absence would not cause such an impact,” Mycroft replied. “Best not to tempt fate, however,” he added, eyes twinkling.

The temptation to lean back over the bed for a kiss was great, but Greg resisted.

_Tempt fate, indeed._

“Won’t be too long,” he said instead.

As he stepped into the shower, Greg’s brain reminded him how he often used his time in the shower. The soap made his skin silky smooth, allowing his hands to slide easily across his body. Temptation indeed, he thought, resisting the urge to slide his hands lower, to satisfy himself. He couldn’t decide if Mycroft in the next room was a deterrent or inspiration; indeed his cock jumped at the idea. The whole day ahead of him, pretending to be Mycroft’s besotted boyfriend would be too much, he told himself. Swearing silently, Greg gave in, resting one hand on the wall as the other curled around his cock.  

Eyes closed and the steam swirling, Greg reached for the visions he usually suppressed. Images of pale skin and long limbs were par for the course, but lately soft grey eyes and a deeper voice had crept in, reminding him how attractive he’d found Mycroft, the few times he allowed his thoughts to linger in that direction. Today, though, new sensations echoed in his mind. The press of lips and whisper of stubble from the night before were memories and not fantasies. It strengthened their effect, and with a strangled groan Greg came, painting the tile as his hips jerked.

“Christ,” Greg groaned to himself. Best to get it out of his system so he could concentrate today. He washed down the wall before turning off the water and grabbing his towel. It wasn’t until Greg was almost dry he realised that in his good humour he’d forgotten to bring his clothes into the bathroom.

“Bugger,” he muttered. Last night the same thing had happened, but he hadn’t known Mycroft was there, then. This was different. Despite their pact to act the part all the time, Greg was all too aware of the unspoken agreement that had also been arranged the previous night.

_I can’t be distracted from helping Sherlock._

It was a fragile balance. He didn’t want to take advantage, frighten Mycroft off. Tact was required.

Greg nodded to himself, pulling his sleeping clothes back on and hanging up his towel. “All yours,” he said, making his way back into the bedroom.

Mycroft was sitting up in bed, peering at his phone. “Thank you,” he said distractedly.

“You’d better check the mirror,” Greg said, smiling affectionately. “Hair’s in a bit of a wild state.”

“Ah, thank you,” Mycroft replied, with a hand to his head. Long fingers attempted to flatten the rouge curl, which Greg found adorable.

“You really are a ginger, aren’t you?” Greg couldn’t help adding. “Blush like a champion.”

He came over to sit on the edge of the bed, smiling at Mycroft’s amazement. Gently he reached up, doing his best to straighten the defiant hair. Mycroft remained still, fingers curled around his phone, his lips pressed tight as Greg’s fingers tried to coax his hair into some semblance of co-operation.

“It’s no good,” Greg said, smiling. He lowered his hands, one resting on Mycroft’s shoulder, feeling his heart speed up at the contact. “I assume you usually use some kind of product.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his skin still pink. Greg could see his nervousness and his heart ached to soothe it.

_No. Not yet._

“I should…” Mycroft waved one hand at the bathroom.

“Sure,” Greg replied, standing up. “Better get dressed anyway,” he glanced at his phone, “We’ve only got twenty minutes.”

“An extended shower will certainly pass the time,” Mycroft said, a smile breaking as Greg registered the gentle rebuke. Greg winced, but Mycroft added, “I have extensive experience in preparing rapidly for the day.”

“Sorry,” Greg murmured, heading for his own bag.

“Not a problem,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated before following Greg. Gravely he raised one hand to Greg’s cheek, kissing the other with a careful touch.

Greg’s heart leapt, his breath catching in his throat as Mycroft’s stubble rasped over his skin. He watched with wide eyes as Mycroft pulled back, eyes uncertain.

_Reassure him._

“Thanks,” Greg managed. He made sure to meet Mycroft’s eyes, smiling, hoping his affection was evident in his eyes.

Mycroft nodded a second then turned to the bathroom, closing the door behind himself.

Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Things were getting more and more complicated. He had to get through today, and most of tomorrow, and it would be over, one way or another.

When he heard the shower start, Greg blinked, looking into the wardrobe. _Better get a move on._

By the time Greg was adjusting his tie, Mycroft had emerged from the bathroom and dressed himself with impressive speed.

“And we’re five minutes early,” Greg murmured, smiling at Mycroft. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” murmured Mycroft. He stepped around the bed to smooth Greg’s lapels, one hand straightening the knot of his tie. “Your ensemble is quite festive.”

“Ta,” replied Greg. “I was going to pack my knitted jumper, but I thought things might get a little more formal than that.” He kept his tone light but the feel of Mycroft’s hands still resting on his chest made his heart thump.

“Yes, I believe they might be,” Mycroft replied, amusement in his own voice. “Perhaps your jumper could make an appearance at luncheon.”

“Should I change?” Greg asked. The anxiousness came over him suddenly, certainly colouring his voice. “I don’t really have a knitted jumper, but…”

“No,” Mycroft said, smiling. “You look fine.” He looked down at his own tweed suit and tie. “I am also in a suit and tie.”

“You are always in a suit and tie,” Greg retorted, raising his own fingers to twitch Mycroft’s tie off centre. “I’ll just take my tie off for breakfast, then add it again before church.”

Mycroft made a little noise of amused annoyance, but when his fingers rose they loosened Greg’s tie instead of his own.

“What are you…oh,” Greg said, feeling dextrous fingers undoing his knot. He swallowed, not sure where to look; Mycroft was so close, filling his vision. Greg didn’t know if he could manage to meet Mycroft’s eye for this.

It was too intimate.

“You really should learn to tie a half-Windsor,” Mycroft murmured, sliding the tie slowly from under Greg’s collar, drawing it across the back of his neck.

It felt like a caress drifting across his skin.

_Mycroft is undressing me…_

When the end of the tie dropped loose, Greg watched Mycroft drape it over the end of the bed. Swallowing again, Greg raised his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse.

Mycroft’s face was locked in concentration, grave with a furrowed brow. He froze as Greg started, jerking when he felt Mycroft’s finger slip inside his collar. The pop of his top button made Greg gasp as the fabric released.

“There,” Mycroft whispered. His eyes cleared a little and focussed on Greg’s.

“Thank…thank you,” Greg managed.

They stood there, Greg’s pulse loud in his ear.

_He kissed you before…you can kiss him now. It’s not too much._

Remembering the kiss made Greg shiver, and he could see Mycroft watch it as it shuddered up his spine. With a burst of recklessness Greg leaned up, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s, the relief rumbling through his chest as a groan. He felt Mycroft’s hands gripping his shoulders as his mouth responded, pressing closer.

A sharp rap on the door broke them apart, John’s voice calling through the wood, “Rise and shine, gents! It’s Christmas morning!”

Greg stepped back, clearing his throat. “Better?” he said. “The tie,” he added, when Mycroft looked puzzled.

“Better,” Mycroft agreed. “Shall we?”

“I think we should,” Greg said. Impulsively, he wound his fingers with Mycroft’s before they opened the door.

“Merry Christmas,” Greg greeted John. Sherlock was waiting at the top of the stairs and they all exchanged Yuletide greetings before descending the stairs.

“Good morning and Merry Christmas!” Violet’s voice came from the dining room. Before they could enter, she cried, “Mind the doorway, my dears!”

Greg frowned. Sherlock and John had lagged behind, and he now knew why; he and Mycroft had stopped beneath the mistletoe adorning the entrance to the dining room.

Mycroft looked up then met his mother’s gaze.

Greg could feel him tense as he realised where they stood. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand, sending him the vibes that were becoming so familiar.

_Trust._

Smiling, Greg turned to Mycroft. “Merry Christmas, sunshine,” he murmured, relieved to see Mycroft smiling at him in return.

“Merry Christmas, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, the words a prelude to his lips against Greg’s. It was far more chaste than their effort the previous night, but Greg still found himself smiling as they eased away from each other.

“Oh, bravo,” Violet cheered them on from the dining room.

Greg knew he was flushing as he and Mycroft entered the room, handshakes and kisses being exchanged as everybody greeted each other. Sherlock and John must have avoided the mistletoe, and Greg wondered if either of them was secretly wishing they could have been caught underneath with the other.

He certainly could empathise. Holding back something you wanted so much was agony; part of him wanted to John to be feeling the same about Sherlock right now – it might bode well for the following day.

_We’ll find out soon enough._

Breakfast was even less formal than their evening meal the previous evening. Mycroft made a point to sit next to Greg, and Greg found himself eating eggs with far too much pepper – he’d lost track of how much he was adding when Mycroft’s hand sneaked onto his knee.

The politician’s face was firmly in place, and Greg could only take deep breaths and continue his breakfast as Violet talked about the people coming for lunch – apparently it was a village tradition for the Holmes’ to offer lunch to ‘a few’ people after the church service.

“A few?” Greg asked under his breath.

“Approximately forty people will return here after the church service,” Mycroft supplied. “They will eat far too much, drink the best brandy and leave sometime in the late afternoon clutching their individual gift bags.”

“Gift bags?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. His eyes met Mycroft’s and he found himself leaning in, one arm across Mycroft’s chair for balance. “Sweets and a party trumpet?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow in amusement, leaning closer too so that Greg could hear him murmured, “Hardly, Gregory.”

The sound of his own name in that low, playful tone was remarkably evocative, and Greg couldn’t help grinning. “Well I hope I’m not going to miss out.”

“I will see to it that you do not,” Mycroft said, his voice heavy with double meaning.

_Jesus Christ._

“Well I can see you two have relaxed,” Violet said, her voice cutting into the heavy moment Greg and Mycroft were sharing. “A good night’s sleep does wonders, doesn’t it?”

“I never sleep well when Mycroft is away,” Greg told her, sitting up and looking across the table. “Can’t help worrying, you know?”

“Ah yes,” she replied. “I was like that when Siger would take the boys camping for a night or two.”

“You went camping?” Greg asked him, feeling his mouth twitch. From the look of surprise on John’s face it was news to him as well, and Greg was amused to see both Sherlock and Mycroft scowl into their breakfasts at the revelation.

“Only three or four times,” Siger agreed over his coffee cup. He looked fondly at his boys. “Didn’t take long to figure out my boys weren’t exactly cut out for sleeping rough.”

“Oh really?” John asked. “I’d have thought Sherlock would love setting up a tent.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and bit out, “There were no tents, John. It was wet. All. The. Time.”

“No tents?” Greg asked, grinning at the idea. “Hardcore camping then, Siger?”

“Well, yes,” Siger agreed. “Just at the end of our acreage, of course, but when Sherlock gave up and took himself back to the house yet again, I felt it was better to give it up as a bad idea.”

“Did you enjoy camping, Mycroft?”

“It was not the most enjoyable of experiences,” Mycroft admitted.

“Not to worry,” Siger said. “You’ve both found your niche now. Camping’s not for everyone.”

Greg took the opportunity to strike up a conversation about Siger’s obviously enjoyable camping experiences, and this time when Mycroft’s hand found its way onto his knee, he knew it was gratitude for steering the conversation away from something so uncomfortable.

+++

“Oh! Time for church!” Violet said, breaking into their conversation at last. “We dress rather formally for Christmas Day, perhaps you could add a tie to that wonderful suit, Greg dear?” she said. “It does sit beautifully with your hair.”

Greg felt himself blushing. “Of course, Violet.”

They all stood, agreeing to meet in the hall in ten minutes. Greg heard Violet ask Sherlock and Mycroft to stay back a moment, “let John and Greg fetch their ties in peace.” As they left, the undertones of their conversation chased Greg and John out of the room.

“Are they talking about us?” Greg asked John.

“I’d say so,” John said. “Violet’s probably asking about your present, or reminding Sherlock to behave in church.”

“Right,” Greg said.

“Look, since we’ve got a moment,” John said, glancing behind him. He stopped outside his bedroom door. “It hasn’t come up, but you can see Sherlock and I are sharing his bedroom.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I did notice that.”

“They don’t call you DI for nothing,” John teased, but his face fell quickly back into seriousness. “Look, it’s complicated. Violet and Siger think we’re together, obviously, but in some weird sexless kind of way.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

John rolled his eyes. “She thinks Sherlock’s asexual.”

Greg raised one eyebrow. “Is he not?”

John shook his head. “No.”

“And you know this because…”

“I do, okay? Not from personal experience,” John assured him, and Greg was certain there was something akin to sadness or regret in those words. “But my point is, if Violet or Siger assume we’re together, just don’t disagree, okay?”

“Sure,” Greg said. “Of course.”

“Thanks,” John said. “Hey, you and Mycroft seem to have settled in.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, less comfortable now they were talking about him. “He’s been away, you know how it is.”

“Uh-huh,” John said. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I can’t not say this.” He cleared his throat and straightened up into something suspiciously like military attention. “If you’re planning something against Sherlock, you know I have his back.”

“Christ, no!” Greg hissed, shocked that John would think that. “Jesus, John, are you nuts?”

“No, but I’m not an idiot, and I have eyes. I know you, Greg, and I know how long you’ve fancied Mycroft. Last night was weird, and something’s going on.”

Greg sighed, one hand passing over his eyes. “Look, John, this sounds dodgy as all hell, but you’re going to have to trust me on this.” He looked squarely into John’s face. “Mycroft and I are not planning anything against Sherlock. Last night was weird because,” he shrugged, “I was here, and he wasn’t, and then he was, and it was strange being us in front of people when we haven’t before.”

_Nice job skirting the truth there, Lestrade._

John nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Greg could see he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he stuck out his hand for Greg to shake. Accord reached, John disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Greg to double-time it up to his own room. He paused for a second as he grabbed for his tie, remembering the moment Mycroft had untied it and slid it out from beneath his collar.

“Would you like some help tying that?” Mycroft’s voice sounded from behind Greg.

“Christ, you startled me,” Greg said, turning sharply. “Yeah, I think you’ll do a much better job than I will.”

“I assume John took the opportunity to ask you about our relationship,” Mycroft asked quietly, his eyes and hands at Greg’s throat.

“He did,” Greg said. “I told him the truth.” Mycroft’s hands stilled. “Not the whole truth,” Greg amended, “but the things I told him were the truth.”

“You would make a good spy,” Mycroft murmured. “There.” His fingers pressed into the knot he’d made at Greg’s throat, lingering as they trailed down the length of fabric.

“Thank you,” Greg said. He met Mycroft’s eye, leaning in to brush a kiss across his lips. “Shall we go?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg pretended not to have seen his eyes flutter at the brief kiss.

It was natural to walk down the stairs hand in hand, and help each other into coats and scarves, smiling close as gloved hands pressed lapels flat. Greg noticed Sherlock holding John’s jacket for him, and the slightly confused expression at the solicitous action, though he did accept Sherlock’s help.

“Do you think,” Greg asked, as they stepped outside, “John will figure it out before the song?”

Mycroft looked over at his brother, standing close to John, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. John’s body was turned slightly towards Sherlock, a fact of which Greg knew he was unaware – the one time Anderson had called them on their ‘couple-y body language’ John had been genuinely surprised, scoffing at the notion.

He hadn’t stopped doing it, though.

“I do not believe he will,” Mycroft said slowly. “While John can be extremely perceptive about those around him, even about Sherlock, I believe his ideas about my brother in some respects are rather ill-informed.”

Greg hummed. “He said your parents think they’re together.”

“Well of course they do,” Mycroft replied. “They do share Sherlock’s bedroom, after all.”

Greg laughed a little. “Yeah, but that’s just…them.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, “from a purely objective standpoint, John and my brother are in all respects a couple. From the perspective of a mother who desperately wants her son to be happy, there is no other possible explanation.”

“Fair call,” Greg said. For some reason the assessment stung. Was Violet overlooking the obvious to convince herself that Sherlock was happy? Was she doing the same with he and Mycroft? He wondered if she had seen through their ruse and yet still accepted it, accepted him. It was a strange idea, and Greg found it occupied his thoughts on their walk down to the village.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He looked sideways at Mycroft. “Just thinking. Wondering what your mum wanted to talk to you about this morning, actually.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “She…wanted to know if I was happy.”

Greg waited, but Mycroft did not elaborate. “And what did you say?”

“I told her I am.” He looked at Greg with an astonishingly open expression. “I told her you make me very happy.”

“You did?” Greg replied. _Wow._ He didn’t know what else to add, but they arrived at the church gate at that moment, their group bunching together again after having spread out along the path.

Greg concentrated on smiling and greeting people as they entered, accepting and giving best wishes of the season. They found seats together, and as he looked around the unfamiliar building, he felt Mycroft’s fingers squeeze his.

“Church is an unfamiliar tradition for you?”

“Haven’t been since I was a kid,” Greg admitted.

“The service will not be particularly long,” Mycroft murmured. “Their more religious services are early in the morning. This caters to a more…seasonal audience.”

“Noted,” Greg replied, squeezing in return. “Thanks.”

The minister rose and started speaking. Greg was relieved to find Mycroft was right; the service, while clearly Christian, was shorter and more joyous than he expected. Having his fingers wound with Mycroft’s was hardly a negative either. It made him much more aware of the man, of how still he sat, how straight his spine remained, how carefully he paid attention – or appeared to – during the service.

“Sherlock was right, you do have a lovely singing voice,” Violet told him as they left the church.

“Thank you,” Greg replied. The few carols had been well known enough for him to join in on at least the first verse of each.

“Perhaps we’ll put some carols on tonight as well,” Violet mused.

“Sure,” Greg said, feeling Mycroft watching him.

As his mother drifted away to greet someone, Mycroft stepped closer, ducking his mouth beside Greg’s ear. “Do not feel obliged to sing this evening,” he murmured, the words brushing warm air over Greg’s ear.

He shivered, keeping his eyes front. “I won’t,” he said.

_Except for tomorrow night._

He didn’t say it, but he knew the words hung in the air. The sudden melancholy around them made it obvious the same thought had occurred to both of them. Greg wondered if Mycroft was reminding himself this wasn’t real; it was the same line he’d been feeding himself until that half conversation, the unspoken understanding of something more, something they wouldn’t discuss until the business with Sherlock was done, one way or another.

The walk back up to the house was quiet, the somber silence between them in contrast to the bright chatter of the rest of the family as they walked ahead.

Greg couldn’t shake it. He’d allowed himself to conveniently forget about the real reason for his presence, and the reminder was a shock. He and Mycroft had spoken in such euphemisms, in pleading looks and half completed sentences and now Greg wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Until tomorrow night, they were in this weird holding pattern and somehow he had to keep pretending everything was fine.

_Only another day or so to go. Come on, Lestrade._


	7. Christmas Day Luncheon

The walk passed quickly enough, and Greg smiled his way through the gifts they exchanged around the lavishly decorated tree he hadn’t even noticed in the sitting room. Mycroft had arranged gifts on their behalf, of course. Greg was surprised to receive a beautifully wrapped gift from Violet and Siger; he fumbled it open to find a pair of ice skates.

“Wow…” he breathed.

_Christ, we only talked about it last night. How the hell did she manage that?_

“Well, if you’re going to be coming up for Christmases you’re going to need your own pair,” Violet told him, beaming.

The assumption that Greg would be here for more than just this year, took Greg’s breath away. “Thank you,” he managed to choke, horrified to realise he was close to tears. Blindly, he thrust the box at Mycroft, sitting beside him. “Please excuse me a moment.”

Blinking, Greg saw enough to get himself out of the sitting room, turning right and stumbling through the front door. The cold air was shocking on his skin and he pulled his arms around his body, closing his eyes as he stood under the porch. All the carefully constructed rationalisations he’d fed himself on the walk home were crumbling.

_Fuck._

He had not expected such a thoughtful gift. Such a _hopeful_ gift. Given how solicitous Violet in particular was, Greg had kind of assumed there would be something for him – he couldn’t imagine her not arranging something, to be honest. But the skates…they said it clearly. Not only did they expect him to be here for many Christmases, but they expected him to be with Mycroft for many Christmases.

Many years. Enough to warrant a brand new pair of ice-skates at very short notice in what he would bet was exactly his size.

 _Jesus._ Greg pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping to stem the slow trickle of tears. _What the hell am I doing here?_ Pretending to be the boyfriend of someone he’d fancied for years. Loved probably, though he’d never allowed himself to phrase it quite that way.

It was somehow less pathetic to fancy someone from afar than it was to love them. Even if you did.

And Mycroft felt something, whatever the hell it was. He was prepared to behave like Greg was his partner, at least, but it was more than just that. The private moments had been far more intimate than they could possibly have been between two people acting. His vulnerability, the crack in his voice as he begged Greg to wait until their goal was done. The admission about why he was doing this – to show Sherlock his commitment – that was a real answer, not the politician’s smooth answer that told nothing. Mycroft didn’t have to share that with him, but he did.

There was something there, but it wasn’t what Violet thought. _We’re only pretending. We’re doing this for Sherlock, and when it’s over Mycroft will smile politely and we’ll go our separate ways. He might fancy me but he doesn’t want a relationship. It’s convenient, a way to placate his brother, nothing more._

Greg knew he was torturing himself but he couldn’t help it. He had no idea what Mycroft planned to do; only what he suspected might happen. What his experiences told him would happen. _People leave when they’re done._

He wished he could turn down the voices in his head.

Ridiculously, song lyrics came to him; an Adele song he’d listened to more times than he knew. Her albums were on high rotation at his place; the lyrics – often sad and heartfelt – matched his mood more often than he wanted to admit. His sad old man life felt perfectly matched to her soulful sound and he’d taken the time to learn quite a lot of her songs, even those she’d covered.

Like this one.

“Turn down the lights, turn down the bed,” he started, keeping his voice quiet. The gentle vibration in his chest as he sang always calmed him, and the first verse passed smoothly enough. His voice sounded oddly small out here. The snow deadened the sound, he figured. Better, anyway. With any luck nobody would come looking for him until he was finished. It was important for a reason he couldn’t quite grasp, but finishing a song always made him feel calmer.

“Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t.”

Greg took a deep breath, throwing off the timing of the chorus, needing the air. His breath support was rubbish when he was emotional, but he’d learned to accept it. Not that it mattered; he hadn’t sung in front of anyone for years. Slowly, breathing when he needed to, Greg made it to the end of the song, hearing the gentle piano accompaniment in his head. Irrationally his brain offered up a suggestion.

_Mycroft plays piano._

“No,” he muttered to himself. Definitely not going to share this particular gem. It was bad enough he’d be singing that Alicia Keys song for Sherlock with Mycroft there. The last thing he needed was to imagine singing this song with Mycroft, their eyes meeting as he sang of loss and resignation, begging a lover to stay just a few moments more before leaving forever.

_Not your best idea, Lestrade._

“Gregory?”

Mycroft’s voice was tentative, and Greg sighed. He was grateful at least that he’d finished the song, but it didn’t mean he wanted this moment to come at all.

“I’m here,” he said, pushing off the stone wall and turning to face Mycroft. He was wearing his coat and gloves, perhaps anticipating an extended search.

“It’s freezing out here,” Mycroft said, offering Greg the coat he’d brought with him.

“Hadn’t really noticed,” Greg replied, shrugging into it, relieved when Mycroft didn’t offer to help. _Sorry I ran out. I needed some space_. The words stuck in his throat so he stood, looking at Mycroft. Drinking in the sight of him, the resignation from the song now flowing through him.

“Are you…well?” Mycroft asked carefully.

Greg could see anxiety in his gaze, and the fact that he stayed so far away said a lot. Too far to touch. _Not sure about where we stand. If we’re still pretending._

He sighed. “Not great, actually.” Deliberately he stepped in close, winding his arms around Mycroft, pressing his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. Keeping up the ruse, he told himself. When he felt Mycroft’s arms come around his back, holding him gently, Greg tightened his arms, needing the anchor. It was a relief when Mycroft followed suit. The compression felt like support, like he could sag and Mycroft would hold him up.

“Can I offer you anything?” Mycroft asked.

“I just…” Greg felt heavy, all of a sudden. The idea of doing this had seemed almost fun to begin with, his worries superficial and unimportant. Who cared whether there was one bed or two? Did it really matter if he had to kiss someone under some mistletoe? Now he’d realised it was a far more complex situation that he’d mired himself in and it was too late. Too late to back out, too late to pretend it wasn’t happening. Too late to protect his heart properly. No matter what happened with Sherlock and John, Greg’s heart would never be the same after this. He’d given into the temptation of being close to Mycroft, pretending to be his boyfriend like they were kids playing dress ups instead of grownups. Grownups foolish enough to think they could walk in and out of this without consequence.

_Fools._

“I think a lie down would help,” Greg said quietly. He took a deep breath and stepped back from Mycroft, breaking the embrace and offering him the closest thing he could manage to a smile.

From the confusion and concern on Mycroft’s face, it was clear Greg did a bad job of it.

“Apologise to your mum for me, will you please?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied automatically, worried grey eyes still scanning Greg’s face. “Gregory…” his voice trailed off, but Greg could see the question in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Greg said. The lie was heavy on his tongue, and he knew Mycroft didn’t buy it.

_Trust._

“I’ll be fine,” Greg amended his words.

“I will check on you before lunch,” Mycroft murmured. One hand reached out a little before he pulled it back, frowning at himself.

Greg’s heart broke a little as he made himself walk back inside. He made it up the stairs without seeing anyone and within minutes he’d curled up on the bed, shutting his eyes and hoping for oblivion.

+++

He must have drifted off at some point, because the weight of someone settling on the mattress woke him.

“Gregory?”

The room was darker; Mycroft had drawn the curtains. _Considerate._

“Yeah,” Greg said. He didn’t sit up; as he looked across the bed at Mycroft the memory of the morning came rolling back over him.

_Christ, it was this morning he untied my tie._

How had so much happened since then? Greg had been a different person, optimistic and hopeful instead of lying here in the half-darkness like a small child too tired to play.

He _was_ too tired to play. Too old for this anymore.

“The lunch guests will be arriving shortly,” Mycroft said quietly. He didn’t say anything else, and there was uncertainty in the silence afterwards. Was Mycroft explaining his own need to be downstairs or asking Greg to accompany him?

_You can’t stay up here all day. Get yourself up._

“Better get myself ready,” Greg said, taking a deep breath to prepare himself to sit up.

“Mummy is under the impression you suffer migraines,” Mycroft told him, one hand pressing Greg’s shoulder back to the bed. “She would be neither surprised nor offended if you remained here for the afternoon.”

Greg blinked at him. “You told her that?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It seemed to be the best course of action.”

“So I’ll stay here?” Greg asked.

“I left it open to interpretation,” Mycroft admitted. “I told her I was not sure what was happening.”

_True enough._

“So it’s up to me,” Greg asked.

“I would not force you to do anything against your will.” The words were determined but quiet. “If you wish to remain here, I can bring lunch to you, or leave you undisturbed.”

Greg’s heart twisted at the gentle consideration. Not ‘I can have lunch brought to you,’ but ‘ _I can bring lunch to you_ ’.

“Do you want me to come down?”

Mycroft’s face twisted into something Greg couldn’t readily interpret. “I believe this should be a decision based on your wellbeing.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He took a deep breath and held it until his lungs might burst. On the second breath, he met Mycroft’s eyes and held them. “My wellbeing is connected to you,” he said. “If you want me to be there, I want to be there.”

He winced a little at the honesty he’d delivered without thinking. _Too much?_

Mycroft was thinking, his fingers smoothing and re-smoothing one section of the bedsheets. “My family aside,” he said carefully, “I see these people once a year, at this exact gathering.”

“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?” Greg asked, feeling his lip twitch as though it was trying for a smile.

Mycroft’s face was still grave as he continued. “The people are far more genuine than in political circles, however the process is uncomfortably similar to working.”

_What does that mean?_

“Does that mean you do want me there or you don’t?” Greg asked. They were both watching Mycroft’s fingers now as they fluttered against the sheets.

_Nobody sees him so uncertain. Nobody…but he shows it to me._

“If you are there,” Mycroft said, “it will be easier.”

“Because you won’t have to talk to them as much,” Greg said. He nodded slowly. He could be a distraction, a convenient excuse to get Mycroft out of a tiresome family party.

It was the least he could do.

“Because you make it easier,” Mycroft corrected immediately, eyes still locked on the sheets.

Greg raised one disbelieving eyebrow. “And you won’t have to talk to them as much.”

“And I won’t have to talk to them as much,” Mycroft agreed, his eyes flicking a little guiltily up to Greg’s.

“Okay,” Greg said. He pulled himself up, sitting closer to Mycroft, blinking as the room rocked a little. Carefully, he reached over, stilling Mycroft’s fingers with his own. “I’m not sure…I’ll be very good conversation,” he said, the admission feeling a little bit like failure. “Do you _want_ to go?”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Do I…want to go?”

“Yeah,” Greg asked. “To the lunch thing. Do you actually want to be down there?” He tilted his head and looked down, brushing fingertips over the backs of Mycroft’s fingers as he waited for an answer.

“I’m not sure that’s a consideration,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Well this year it is,” Greg said quietly. “I mean, I know Christmas with family isn’t always about choice, but you could use me as an excuse.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in understanding. “Are you suggesting I hide from my parents’ Christmas celebration?”

“Um, yeah,” Greg shrugged.

“I’m not sure that’s really a good idea,” Mycroft replied.

“I didn’t think you’d go for it,” Greg said. The tug at the edge of his mouth was stronger now. This time was warm and quiet and it calmed him.

“Might I propose a compromise,” Mycroft said quietly. He turned his hand over, carefully capturing Greg’s fingers within his own. “An hour at the party together, after which you may wish to return to bed.”

“If my migraine comes on again, you mean,” Greg replied. The light conversation was fragile, but it continued to buoy Greg’s emotions. Any heavier discussion would be too much, but this carefully crafted give and receive was just enough.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. His lips tensed with a smile held back. “There are a number of reasons you might wish to return to privacy.”

“Mycroft!” Greg could see the smile playing over Mycroft’s lips at the suggestion. “Perhaps that might be best kept to ourselves.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said. “I was not serious in that regard. Indeed, I achieved my aim.” He allowed his smile to break forth. “I made you smile.”

“You did,” Greg replied. Another deep breath. “Alright. Give me a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “I will wait in the hall.”

Greg watched him stand, feeling their fingers slowly draw apart before he left the room.

“Right,” he muttered. A few minutes in the en suite – bladder, teeth, hair – and back into the bedroom. Greg grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, opening the door to the hall before he could lose his nerve.

Mycroft was there.

“Hi,” Greg said.

“Good grief,” Mycroft replied. He stepped over without saying another word and for the third time that day, Greg held very still as Mycroft attended to his tie. “Much better,” Mycroft said when it was done to his satisfaction.

“Ta,” Greg murmured.

“Are you ready?” Mycroft asked him, eyes probing.

Greg swallowed hard. “Stay with me?” he said.

Mycroft wound his fingers with Greg’s without comment.

_Christ, he’s going to think I’m needy as hell._

It didn’t matter. They had tonight, and tomorrow, and then it was over. All he could do was enjoy the rest of the time they had together. As difficult as it would be, staying at the party would be best, Greg decided as they walked slowly down the stairs, hands entwined. It would give him more excuse to behave as Mycroft’s partner. Even if they had agreed to stay in character, it was harder to do it when they were alone. Harder to deny the façade was covering something more real to both of them.

“Violet,” Greg greeted her where she was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m so sorry, I just felt ill. Needed a few quiet minutes.”

“Of course, Gregory,” she said, smiling at him with a concern mirroring her son’s. “You take your time. As much as I’d love to show you off, this is your first year, so why don’t you and Mycroft find a quiet spot and mingle from there?”

“Thanks,” Greg said.

_This is your first year…_

He swallowed hard, conscious of two pairs of shrewd Holmes eyes on his face. He allowed Mycroft to steer him over to a corner, where a waiter found them and brought the lime and sodas Mycroft requested.

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft said with more than a little irony in his voice.

“Indeed,” Greg said with his best Mycroft Holmes intonation.

Mycroft smiled, recognising himself.

“Thank you for this,” Greg said as they surveyed the crowd.

“This?” Mycroft said.

“No,” Greg said. “Well, kind of. For your consideration, I guess.”

Mycroft hummed in response, smiling and raising his drink to someone across the room. “It is not a problem, Gregory. Not something I would even think about, if I was honest.”

“If you were honest?” Greg teased.

“Gregory,” Mycroft warned him, though his eyes were sparkling.

“Don’t worry,” Greg said. “I think we’re on the same level there this weekend.”

He looked across the room, knowing Mycroft was frowning at him, wondering what he was talking about. “So, tell me who some of these people are.”

They passed the next half an hour or so talking quietly as Mycroft pointed out local people. Some he had known all his life, others were newer to the area. A few came over to see them, smiling at both Mycroft and Greg. The more interesting ones stayed away, and Greg noticed a pattern.

“There’s a bit of tension over there,” he said, nodding his head to a group of people standing by the buffet. They had slightly sour expressions, and Greg had wondered why they had come at all when they appeared to be socialising with nobody but themselves. That was until Sherlock and John approached them and started talking. None of the group looked comfortable with them, even with what Greg could see was John’s most affable expression on his face. Sherlock appeared to have been offended by something, and he was waving his hands around and pointing at each group member in turn.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft said. He looked torn, realising his commitment to Greg.

“Go,” Greg said. “I’ll be fine.”

The noise in the room was such that Greg could not hear what was happening, even when voices were clearly being raised. Mycroft was working his best politician face but it all lacked a bit without his power suit and umbrella, Greg thought. There was clearly some kind of argument going on, with Sherlock trying to talk to John, who looked pissed as hell but in control, and a man who was now shouting loud enough to be red in the face.

The crowd realised something was going on and the small talk subsided as people tuned into what was now going on.

“If that is how you feel it might be best if you leave,” Mycroft was saying, having put himself squarely between Sherlock and the larger, red-faced man.

“I’m not leaving! He should be the one leaving! I’m Head of Local Council in this town, I’ve never seen him here before in my life!”

Greg swore to himself. Taking a deep breath, he made his way through the crowd, breaking up the increasingly agitated men.

“Sir?” _Damn it, I don’t have my badge here._ Greg took a deep breath. “Sir!”

Finally, he’d drawn the attention of the angry man.

“What do you want?”

“I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You have just been asked to remove yourself from this property. Failure to do so is considered trespassing, by law.”

He stopped, experience telling him this was often enough to get people moving of their own accord.

Not in this case.

The man blew out air in a rude noise. “I was invited here by Siger and Violet Holmes,” he said, voice raised as he glanced around the crowd. _Likes the attention. No wonder he’s put himself up for public office._ “So unless they tell me otherwise, I’m staying!”

“Perhaps I have not made myself clear,” Greg continued calmly. “This,” he indicated Mycroft, “is Mycroft Holmes, elder son of Siger and Violet, and this,” he pointed at a very cross looking Sherlock, “is Sherlock Holmes, younger son of the same.” He paused, letting the information settle in the man’s brain. “I’m fairly sure that if they’ve asked you to go, their parents would agree.”

The man stepped forward, grinning unpleasantly. “I’m fairly sure that if I don’t want to go, you’re not going to be able to make me. Not up here, out of London, mate.” He stepped close into Greg, who stood his ground.

_Waiting, waiting…_

One step closer, and the man’s chest pressed against Greg’s.

“And that does it,” Greg snapped, grabbing the man by the wrist and whirling him around, gripping both hands behind his back. “You are under arrest.”

“What? What for?”

“Assault and battery of a police officer,” Greg said, satisfaction in his tone.

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said in a silky tone, offering a pair of handcuffs Greg was certain were police issue and was reasonably sure used to be his. “You might find these useful.”

“I barely touched you!” the man was screaming.

“But touch me you did,” Greg replied, locking the handcuffs around his wrists. “Interestingly, in British law, assault requires only that I am put in fear of immediate physical violence, and there is no requirement for battery to cause any damage.”

Cuffs tightened, Greg turned the man around. “So I guess I could drop the charges on the condition that you and your friends decide you have a pressing engagement somewhere other than this property.”

The man glowered at Greg for a beat before growling, “Fine.”

“And I think it might be fair to say that you are no longer welcome at the Holmes Christmas party, regardless of your standing in the village,” Mycroft added. “However long that might last, of course.”

Greg escorted the man out the back door, Mycroft, Sherlock and John chivvying the rest of the group outside and away from the gawking crowd. The man turned his attention to Mycroft as Greg unlocked the handcuffs with the key John provided. The rest of his group had hightailed it out of there, and they were well out of earshot when he spoke.

“So you’re the heir,” he sneered, looking up and down. “You and your queer brother here, ready to inherit even after disappointing Mummy and Daddy?”

John had the same look on his face Greg had seen only twice before, when he was holding in his temper – but only just barely.

“Time to go,” Greg said, addressing the furious Councilman. “I’d leave without saying anything else, if I was you.”

Sneering, the man took a couple of steps and Greg relaxed. _Christ, we got out of it without anyone getting actually arrested._

And then Sherlock opened his big mouth, stepping forward cockily. “I’m fairly sure your wife would be interested in knowing about your mistress. I’d make sure the Council books balance correctly before the end of the month.”

The man had frozen at the word ‘mistress’, turning back to Sherlock. “The end of the month?” he repeated.

“I believe that is when your position will be made redundant,” Sherlock told him.

Later, Greg would reflect and decide it was probably the smirk playing around Sherlock’s mouth that caused the man to take a swing at him.

John, of course, got there first. He’d been lurking close by, easing up behind Sherlock without anyone really noticing. The first punch connected with Sherlock’s shoulder – he’d moved instinctively, but not enough to entirely avoid it. There was no second punch; before he could move again John was on him, sitting on his back with one arm twisted up his back.

“Backup’d be good about now,” John said, grunting as his prisoner twisted. “Mycroft?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, his phone already out. “Two minutes.”

“You alright?” Greg asked Sherlock.

“Fine,” the detective bit out. He refused to speak to Greg, watching John instead until Mycroft’s security arrived to relieve him of the furious prisoner.

Greg stood, watching Mycroft instruct his security about their new charge. They were talking quietly, so Greg turned to see John examining Sherlock, or trying to. Finally John threw his hands up, taking Sherlock by the uninjured arm and directing him inside.

“Gregory?”

Before Mycroft was done, Siger’s voice came from the door. Violet was behind her husband, talking to John and fussing over Sherlock.

“Siger,” Greg said. “I’m so sorry…” He explained the events as succinctly as possible. “So Mycroft’s had some people remove him. I don’t know what’s going to happen, I think it will depend on what Sherlock and Mycroft decide to do.”

“Ah,” Siger replied. His eyes had gone wider and wider as Greg outlined the events. “Well, I dare say I should thank you. From the sound of it you defended both our home and our sons.”

“Nah, just helping out,” Greg said, squirming at the praise. “Mycroft’s the one that jumped in first, and John held him down.”

“A team effort, then,” Siger said. “Hopefully that’s the most exciting Christmas you have here!”

“Yes, nothing like that’s happened in years,” Violet said, hurrying up. “John’s taken Sherlock upstairs, he wants to check out his shoulder.” This was directed to her husband. “Unfortunately I think we’ve had the end of the party, most of the guests have left.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Greg told her. “I hope we didn’t do that.”

“I suspect none of this was any of your faults,” she said reassuringly. “Roger certainly was someone to escalate a situation.”

“He was…offensive,” Mycroft said stiffly. “In the extreme.”

“Well then, I’m pleased to see him gone,” Violet said. “As for the rest of the village, I’m sure they will enjoy the speculation and gossip about this for months.”

“Right,” Greg replied. He wondered what this boorish, arrogant man had said to offend Mycroft, but figured it could wait. “So, the party’s over?”

“It appears so,” Siger replied.

“Perhaps we might take a walk,” Mycroft suggested. “If you have no objections, Mummy?”

“Of course not,” Violet replied. “Just make sure you take a scarf, the wind’s picking up.”

They all walked inside together, Greg and Mycroft stopping at the coat closet before they retraced their steps out the back door.

“So,” Greg said, “do you have a plan?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft said, “though the path down to the lake and back is considered picturesque.”

“Sounds good,” Greg said.


	8. Christmas Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is even longer than the previous, but there was simply no good place to break it up, so here you go.  
> If you're after mood music, try these on for size.  
> Sam Smith, One Last Song  
> Adele, Set Fire To The Rain  
> Sam Smith, Stay With Me  
> Alicia Keys, No-one  
> Adele, One and Only

It was an odd atmosphere as they followed the snowed over path Mycroft indicated. Greg wondered if Mycroft had a particular reason for suggesting they take a walk together. If he did, was it about what had happened at the house? About them, the real them…or the front they were putting on for Sherlock’s sake? Too many ideas swirled in his head so Greg just walked, waiting for Mycroft to speak first.

“I thought some space from the inevitable ruckus at the house might be welcome,” Mycroft said apropos of nothing.

“Ruckus?” Greg asked, watching a single bird flit from bare tree branch to bare tree branch ahead of them.

“Mother is certain to question Sherlock about the incident, and given his response to John’s medical attention, he is in no mood to be tactful.”

Greg nodded. “I hope he’s not hurt,” he said finally.

“I doubt the blow was sufficient to cause lasting damage,” Mycroft replied.

“To his ego, maybe,” Greg muttered.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied.

Greg glanced over to find Mycroft looking at him. “What?” he asked, self-conscious.

“The lake,” Mycroft said, pointing.

Greg knew there was something else, but after a beat he turned to look, letting the moment slide. They were at a delicate kind of agreement here and he didn’t want to upset the balance.

“Wow, that’s gorgeous,” he said. There was a tiny shed at the end of the path, beside a surprisingly large lake. “Did you say it was the village lake?”

“Technically the grounds of Musgrave Hall extend beyond the lake, however my father has always been adamant it be used as a public resource,” Mycroft replied. “Swimming in warmer months, ice skating during winters.”

“I get the impression Sherlock was quite good?” Greg asked, taking a seat on the rough bench beside the shed.

“He was,” Mycroft replied dryly. “As he was at most things.”

“Am I sensing brotherly tension?” Greg asked. He hoped the gentle tease wasn’t too much.

“Always,” Mycroft replied, a wry grin on his face.

“He’s better than he used to be,” Greg observed, looking out over the still lake. “Less volcanic.”

“Volcanic?” Mycroft said, eyebrow raised.

“You know what I mean,” Greg said, bumping his shoulder into Mycroft’s. “He doesn’t go off as much. And it’s been months since I’ve even had to consider the phrase ‘drugs bust’ to pull him into line.”

“John is a positive influence,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, surprised Mycroft would admit it. “What do you think will happen tomorrow?”

Mycroft shrugged, an action that spoke volumes.

_He’s worried. Doesn’t want it to show._

Greg blinked.

_Since when have I been able to read him when he doesn’t want me to?_

Impulsively, Greg scooted a little closer, taking Mycroft’s gloved hand in his own. “It will be fine.”

“Fine.” Mycroft’s reply was flat with disbelief.

“Fine,” Greg repeated. “Have you seen how John looks at him? Even if…” he stopped, raising his free hand to turn Mycroft’s chin, tilting his own body to look Mycroft square in the face. “Even if John isn’t interested in Sherlock like that, he’s not cruel.” A flash of understanding. “He won’t leave, you know.”

Wide grey eyes, shocked at Greg’s perception, blinked rapidly. “You can’t know that.”

“I can,” Greg shot back. “Look, I’m John’s best mate. We talk about…well, not everything, but a lot. And I know that as much as you think he saved Sherlock, Sherlock bloody saved him too.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

“Are you kidding? Don’t tell me you’ve never turned that deduction thing on John. He was suicidal when he got shipped back to England, and we both know meeting Sherlock, running all over London like an idiot, is what keeps him going as much as it keeps your brother going. He loves Sherlock in some way or another.” Greg shrugged. “Just a matter of whether he’s prepared to admit it in front of all of us.”

Mycroft’s eyes had been following Greg’s as he spoke. When silence fell it took a moment before he appeared to realise he’d been staring, and Greg was startled by the sudden straightening of posture and clearing of his throat.

“Yes,” he said, as though needing to say something. A considered moment, and he added, “I am sure you know John far better than I. I will trust your judgement on this matter.”

“Good,” Greg smiled, and the kiss was over before he realised he was leaning in. Cold nose, warm lips, his brain registered. Right.

“Should we…shall we walk back?” Greg asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. Their fingers were still entwined and Greg was happier than he would admit when Mycroft moved carefully so as not to dislodge them.

“I hope it wasn’t too difficult to learn the song Sherlock is planning to perform tomorrow,” Mycroft said as they walked slowly back up the gentle hill to the house.

“Not at all,” Greg replied. “I knew it pretty well already.”

“Sherlock may or may not adhere to his arrangement,” Mycroft said. “He sometimes takes the liberty of embellishing mid-performance.”

“Noted,” Greg said, grinning. He shook his head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve sung in front of anyone.”

“Church service aside?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at Mycroft. “Church service aside.”

“What kind of music do you prefer?” Mycroft asked, the question sitting awkwardly on his tongue.

“All sorts. A lot of Sam Smith and Adele lately,” Greg replied. “Sad stuff. Soul, I guess you’d call a lot of it.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said.

_He’s never heard of them._

Clearing his throat as much to clear the butterflies from his stomach as anything else, Greg opened his mouth and started on ‘One Last Song’, one of his favourite Sam Smith songs. It was a stretch for his range, especially without warming up and in the cold air, but he could sing it without thinking about the lyrics.

He could feel Mycroft’s attention on him, and Greg knew his cheeks would be pink not only from the winter air but the strange thrill-terror that came from being so clearly seen. When ‘One Last Song’ finished he launched right into ‘Set Fire to the Rain’. He’d long ago rearranged it for his voice – not that Mycroft would recognise the difference, probably – but as it came to a close Greg was excruciatingly aware that he’d just sung two post break-up songs in a row.

Deliberately he looked at Mycroft as he changed gears, a light, cheerful version of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ filling the air. It lasted all of half a verse, the scandalised look on Mycroft’s face causing him to break down into laughter.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped as Mycroft’s look of disgust shifted into fond tolerance. “Getting a bit heavy there, the atmosphere.”

“Still, I’m not sure ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ is ever an appropriate choice, Gregory,” Mycroft told him.

“What, never?” Greg asked, still smiling.

“No,” Mycroft said with an air of finality.

“Well I will bear that in mind,” Greg said. “Does your mum have any such biases against classic Christmas songs?”

“She prefers traditional carols, as do all sane individuals,” Mycroft retorted, his eyes sparkling. “Please do not favour her with ‘Santa Claus Is Coming To Town’ or ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, either.”

“But what if it’s true?” Greg asked before he could stop himself.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, but Greg was ready with an amused, challenging look on his face. Before he could reply, they turned the corner to see Sherlock pacing by the back door.

“Ah, there you are.” Sherlock looked grimly determined when they approached him. “I trust you have learned the music and lyrics I gave you before we left London.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “But we’re not-”

“We’re doing this now,” Sherlock said tensely.

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again, watching the detective pace. He looked bad. Like he did when there wasn’t a case, when John was out of town…

“Okay,” Greg said quietly. “We can do it now.” He turned to Mycroft, who was looking at his brother with concern. “Right, Mycroft?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “We’ll follow your lead, Sherlock.”

“Right. Good.” Sherlock looked no less stressed out by their support. “Let’s go.”

“We’ll just take our coats off. We’ll meet you in the library in five minutes, okay?” Greg told him.

“Three,” Sherlock said tersely, spinning on his heel and striding into the house.

Greg looked at Mycroft, exchanging a significant look as they both followed Sherlock. His heart was pounding, fingers starting on their buttons as they walked. The adrenaline was already pulsing through his veins as though he was leaving the office for a scene or arrest. His attention was focussed, and it wasn’t until Mycroft put one hand on his shoulder that he stopped and looked.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly. “For doing this.”

Greg took a deep breath and looked into Mycroft’s eyes. “We’ve already done this. You don’t need to be thankful.”

“And yet…” Mycroft said. “I find myself _being_ thankful, despite your assurances.”

Greg could see the nerves in his eyes. “It will be fine.”

“What if it’s not?” Mycroft’s words were whispered, the terror in his eyes showing Greg his ultimate fear.

_What if Sherlock starts using because it’s not fine?_

Greg’s heart heaved to see Mycroft’s vulnerability. Without thinking he stepped in, holding Mycroft’s eyes, cradling his face in both hands. “If this doesn’t go right,” he said seriously, “you go with Sherlock. Do whatever he needs. I’ll go with John, make sure he’s okay.”

Mycroft nodded, a jerky little movement that had no confidence behind it. “Alright,” he whispered.

“We will make this work,” Greg said. “We’ve got their backs, and Sherlock knows you put yourself on the line for this, remember?” Mycroft still looked doubtful. “We can do it,” Greg whispered, and in desperation he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s. “Together, remember?” Mycroft nodded and Greg tilted his face, pressing their lips together, hoping he was reassuring Mycroft.

_I’m here with you. I care, too._

“Your three minutes is up,” Sherlock hissed from behind them. “Everyone is waiting.”

Greg kept hold of Mycroft for another beat before letting him ease back and turning his eyes to Sherlock. “We are doing this for you, Sherlock. No matter what happens, we have your back.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, his nod uncannily similar to Mycroft’s. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

“Okay, let’s go,” Greg said. He clapped one hand on Sherlock’s back, the other reaching for Mycroft. As they walked into the library and saw Violet, Siger and John waiting, the nerves hit Greg.

_Shit. I’m about to sing in front of these guys._

“How was your walk?” Violet asked them brightly.

“Lovely, thank you,” Greg said. “Your village is beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you,” Violet replied. “Now since the party ended early, Sherlock has a surprise for us all!”

Violet turned her attention to her son, along with Siger and John.

Greg gripped Mycroft’s hand, hoping things weren’t about to go pear-shaped on them all.

“John,” Sherlock started.

John looked confused, in an indulgent, amused kind of way.

Silence. Sherlock cleared his throat.

_Christ, he must be nervous._

“This is for you,” Greg said, releasing Mycroft’s hand and stepping forward. The action spurred the others and he saw Mycroft moving towards the piano and Sherlock reaching for his violin.

As they tuned, Greg was privately grateful he’d sung for Mycroft. It was his warm-up, in essence, something he’d not even thought about until right now. He could feel everyone’s eyes on them but he ignored the curious gazes for the moment.

The butterflies did not need any encouragement.

_Please let this go right for Sherlock._

He waited by the piano until Mycroft looked at him and nodded. He gave Greg a single note; a quiet hum to match it and Greg was good to go.

They connected for a moment before Mycroft turned his gaze to his brother, and Greg turned on side to face their audience while keeping an eye on Mycroft.

Siger and Violet looked like proud parents would; intently interested in whatever was about to happen. Violet kept glancing at John, as though to gauge his reaction. It was exactly what Greg wanted to do, too.

John was sitting very straight, his arms crossed; his face was set in what Greg privately called his ‘convince me’ face. He clearly had no idea _what_ was going on but now he knew there was _something_. His eyes were on Greg until Mycroft began the first notes, and there was no turning back.

Greg was listening to the intro – only four bars until he was up – but John’s expression almost made him miss his entrance. From what Sherlock had said, John would certainly recognise the lyrics, but Mycroft had barely started playing before recognition bloomed across his face and he stared at Sherlock.

As soon as Greg took a deep breath and began to sing, John’s mouth dropped open. In the edge of his vision Greg could see Violet clasping her hands, the lyrics registering as Greg continued.

“You and me together, through the days and nights…”

John’s lips were moving now, matching Greg as he sang.

“I don’t worry ‘cause everything’s gonna be alright…”

As they moved into the chorus Sherlock came in, playing along with the lyrics.

“No-one, no-one, no-one, can get in the way of what I’m feeling…”

Mycroft was flicking his gaze between the keys and Sherlock – who was playing with his eyes closed, ostensibly to concentrate but Greg was pretty sure he was hiding his emotions.

_Can’t blame him. He’s putting it all out there._

As they moved into the bridge, Greg allowed Sherlock to take over, stepping back so the violinist could solo over his brother’s anchoring piano chords. He watched as Sherlock stepped in front of the piano and the music took over.

It was beautiful. The notes soared and yearned, Sherlock’s body swaying with the music. Greg had no idea about the technical side of it, but it was so evocative he didn’t even care. Tearing his eyes away, Greg glanced over to John, wondering if he would be able to tell whether John was leaning one way or the other.

The tears streaming unhindered down John’s face told their own story. A trickle of relief rolled down his spine, but he put a tight clamp on it. There was no point getting ahead of himself; no matter how much John liked the song, it didn’t guarantee anything.

The song slid into one more chorus before Greg was done and Mycroft eased out, leaving Sherlock to the last few notes. They hung in the air, vibrating into silence and nobody moved.

Sherlock was frozen, his violin still at his chin.

Mycroft sat at the piano, watching his brother, eyes wide with anticipation.

Greg could see John trying to compose himself while Violet and Siger sat stunned, looking around as though they knew something had happened but were not quite sure what it was.

He didn’t want to be the one to break the spell. It didn’t feel like it was his place, even though he’d been singing the words. This was between Sherlock and John, and from what Greg could see, they would have something to talk about, if Sherlock ever opened his eyes again.

Finally, someone stirred, and Greg’s heart leaped as he realised it was John. Slowly, he stood up, taking a deep breath, wiping roughly at his cheeks. Carefully he walked over to Sherlock, running gentle fingers from elbow to hands, taking the violin and bow, eyes locked on the now wide eyes of the detective.

“Greg,” John said, offering the violin and bow, and Greg jumped forward, taking the pieces carefully, hoping like hell he didn’t accidentally break them.

As soon as his hands were free John stepped into Sherlock, one hand easing the dark head lower so he could whisper something. They stood for a few seconds, a few words breathed between them before they moved together, the kiss as soft and tender as Greg had ever witnessed.

_Well that’s a yes, then._

“Excuse us,” John said hoarsely without taking his eyes off Sherlock. Without waiting for a reply they walked out of the library, eyes still locked together, John’s tears now mirrored in Sherlock’s eyes.

Silence rang for another beat until Violet broke it by asking, “What on earth just happened here?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft. To his astonishment the elder brother’s eyes were a little glazed, his lips pressed together in a hard line.

“Sherlock’s Christmas present for John,” Greg supplied. “He needed a little help.”

“Ah,” Violet breathed. “Well, I can see it worked.”

“It did,” Greg said, the fact finally hitting him. “It worked.” He glanced at Mycroft, who looked like he was about to fall apart.

“Well we’ve lost Sherlock and John, I think,” Siger said. He stood up. “Perhaps we should all take the evening to relax.”

“Excellent idea,” Greg said immediately. “Mycroft?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, standing up in a daze.

“There’s plenty of food in the kitchen,” Violet told Greg as she stood. “Please help yourself.” She patted his cheek maternally, smiling fondly at him. “Take care of Mycroft. It looks like Sherlock was not the only one affected by your beautiful voice.”

“Thank you,” Greg said automatically. She smiled at him again before taking Siger’s arm. It left Greg and Mycroft standing in the library together.

“Hey, you okay?” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft blinked, processing the question. “I believe so,” he said.

“Seems to have gone well for Sherlock,” Greg said, keeping his tone light.

_What now?_

He pushed the question aside. Right now – in this moment – he needed to be sure Mycroft was okay. Anything more would have to wait.

“It does appear that way,” Mycroft agreed. “The medium of song appears to have been a great success.”

Greg nodded at him. Sighing, Mycroft sat back down, fingers straying idly over the keys.

“Hey,” Greg said, his ear recognising the tune. “Is that what I was singing?” He frowned. “Earlier, outside…”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said. He’d been picking out the melody but went back to the start, adding chords behind it. “Will you join me?”

Smiling, Greg sat beside Mycroft, surprised they both fit. “Is this a standard piano stool?” he asked.

“Sherlock and I used to play duets,” Mycroft admitted, his fingers still dancing over the keys. “We could only agree to play together if there was space for us both.”

“Siblings,” Greg said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. The song morphed into another Greg recognised, and as the introduction finished, he couldn’t help sing along. It was one of his favourites, something that had resonated with him since it was released. Not a soul knew he’d cried that day; feeling like the lyricist had looked into his very being when writing it.

“Oh won’t you stay with me, ‘Cause you’re all I need…”

He always changed the next lines; it was the only part he didn’t like. _The part that makes me feel too lonely._

“This is love, it’s clear to me, so darling, stay with me…”

As the words flowed and Mycroft’s piano came along with him, Greg closed his eyes. He could feel the emotion burning through him, the tears prickling as they always did. It was cathartic in a way. There weren’t a lot of places he could be so honest about what he wanted emotionally; it was as much his own reticence as it was a lack of people he trusted to open up to.

_Mycroft is one of those people._

“You know that song well,” Mycroft said quietly. He was still playing, the tune shifting and morphing as he spoke.

“I do,” Greg replied. “It feels…true.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

Greg sat, watching long fingers move without pause, the music swirling around them. He closed his eyes as familiar sections appeared and disappeared. He was comfortable sitting here, beside the man he’d become so attuned to over the weekend. Obviously his assessment of Mycroft's musical knowledge was wrong; the music drifted through plenty of familiar stuff. Mycroft seemed to be content to play without conversation, so Greg took the chance to consider how he felt.

Their performance was over.

Their performance with Sherlock had been a success, as far as they could tell. Certainly they could not have done more to make it work.

Their performance as a couple…that was a more complicated question. For all the emotional upheaval he’d experienced, the uncertainty about his own emotion and Mycroft’s, right now he felt…calm. Content to be sitting here, not knowing where he stood with Mycroft, knowing he would never forget this Christmas as long as he lived.

Knowing he would always carry Mycroft in his heart. Even if Mycroft did not want to be with him. Even if these two days were all they would have together.

Even if his heart was shattered.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice low and pensive.

“Mmm?”

“Thank you for sharing that song with me.”

“No problem.”

Mycroft didn’t speak again, but Greg had gotten to know his silences and this was definitely one that meant he was trying to find the words for something.

_I can wait._

Greg breathed deeply, drawing the music into him as he waited for Mycroft. The sense of calm surrounded him and he felt like he could wait as long as it took.

_I want you to want me._

The lyric came into his head, and he smiled a little.

“You said it resonated with you,” Mycroft told him.

“Yes,” Greg replied.

“I would like to share a song that resonates with me, if you would like to hear it.”

_Oh God, yes…_

“I would love to,” Greg said.

His heart was pounding as he listened to Mycroft finish the phrase and blend seamlessly into something breathtakingly familiar. As Sherlock did, Mycroft closed his eyes, losing himself in the music.

_Oh Mycroft…_

Without thinking, Greg started to sing when the introduction finished. His voice was nothing on Adele, of course, but he could no more listen to the music without singing than he could not wonder who Mycroft thought of when he heard this song.

“Every feeling, every word, I’ve imagined it all…”

Oh God, it was about them. About this weekend. Was it?

Greg’s heart was thumping as he sang, equating the words with this weekend, his brain fractured as he tried to keep up with the lyrics, consider the possibilities from before this weekend, match up the lyrics with this weekend, talk himself down from the hope blossoming in his chest.

_Please let it be about me._

A short break and Greg gasped, pulling air into his lungs and battling the sudden overwhelming desperation.

_I do want you. I want it to be you so badly._

The calm that was in him was gone, and as Mycroft joined him in the lyrics Greg’s heart broke a little. The longing was devastating, pulling at him with its raw openness.

Just when Greg thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Mycroft opened his eyes. The timing was perfect, the end of the second verse; grey eyes pierced him and Greg stuttered to a stop.

As Mycroft sang to him, the doubt and desperation melted away. There was no way Mycroft was singing this to anyone else.

“I promise I’m worthy, mm, to hold in your arms…”

_Fuck. Me. Up._

It was fascinating, watching Mycroft play and sing with such quiet emotion, held so tightly beneath his iron control. It was like a gusher coming to the surface through the one outlet, pouring through his fingers and voice. Greg couldn’t believe so much lay beneath the surface; only a week ago he’d barely even glimpsed inside and he’d been hooked. Now, he and Mycroft had shared the most intense two days of his life, and Greg knew he would never look at the man the same. His willingness to do this for his brother was remarkable, and Greg swallowed hard as Mycroft, the bravest man he knew, bared his heart.

He couldn’t look away if he tried. Mycroft’s eyes were pulling him in, begging him to understand. Seeing him so open was mesmerising. Greg found he could understand the message like it was his native tongue. He could see far more similarities between them now than ever before; they had both agreed to help Sherlock, to spend time pretending to adore someone they already did, risking their fragile hearts in the process. Hearts they had protected until now, content to take the small moments rather than risk it all.

Greg had been thinking it was only he who had risked it but Mycroft was in the same position, only with more to lose – his brother. The fear in his eyes had been as much about losing Greg as losing Sherlock; the same fear Greg had held close. Losing the one he had adored from afar.

Until now.

Greg let Mycroft finish out the song, the emotion in his throat too thick to push lyrics through. After the last chord sounded, Mycroft’s fingers lifted enough to raise the keys, but remained there, sitting on the white keys as the sound faded into the room.

_What do you say to that?_

Nothing. There was nothing to say. They were so close Greg could hear him swallow. As he watched Greg could see the shake of his lower lip, soothed by his tongue.

_Christ._

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered. He thought nothing would pull his gaze from Mycroft’s eyes, but watching Mycroft lick his lips was just as enthralling.

“Gregory,” Mycroft croaked, and the single word seemed to crack his reserve. “It’s you…this song is for you…and now this weekend…” he swallowed again, his voice cracking on the words. “It’s us.”

“Thank God,” Greg breathed, reaching for him. He was so close the words were barely out before his lips met Mycroft’s.

It was everything they’d held in all weekend; everything Greg had wanted in their first kiss, when he’d been holding back every time they’d kissed from that first time in Mycroft’s bedroom to by the lake, frozen noses brushing in the cold air. Mycroft kissed back as hard as Greg, teeth and tongue, soft whines and moans filling the air from Greg didn’t know where.

_Mycroft. I’m kissing Mycroft and it’s real._

“Mycroft,” Greg groaned, feeling hands on his face, in his hair; fingernails scraping along his scalp, sending shivers down his spine. It was a whirl of sensation, all over it overlaid with his pounding heart and the word that sounded along with it.

_Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft…_

“We should…” Mycroft’s voice trailed off into a groan as Greg slid across his cheek, giving up trying to kiss a mouth trying to form words, “move.” He gasped, Greg’s lips closing gently around his ear.

“Move?” Greg whispered. “To where?” He knew where he wanted to go, where every cell of his body was screaming at him to take Mycroft, but he needed to hear it. To know he and Mycroft were on the same page.

For all the frantic kissing going on right here, Greg still needed to know. That one last piece of assurance.

_It’s more than kissing. More than idle flirtation._

“Upstairs,” Mycroft managed on a groan, fingers digging into Greg’s shoulders. “Please…”

“Christ,” Greg groaned. “Yes, upstairs.”

It used all his willpower to pull away, meeting Mycroft’s eyes, panting into the air between them. Mycroft looked as wrecked as he felt. Eyes hooded, mouth open and kissed red, his hair in disarray where Greg’s fingers had gripped at it. So much more tempting than Greg had even imagined.

“Gregory,” Mycroft panted.

Greg pulled himself out of it, blinking hard.

_Right. Upstairs._

Standing was a little troubling, but Mycroft’s hand in his own helped steady Greg. They stumbled together towards the staircase, fingers tangled. Greg could feel the smile on his face as he breathed hard, racing toward Mycroft’s bedroom. It was uncomfortable, stumbling against walls, his cock pressing hard against his trousers, impeding his gait even further.

Down the hall to the last door, and Greg pulled it open, dragging Mycroft in after him.

The slam of wood against doorframe was loud.

Mycroft’s body against the door was louder.

Greg stopped, panting, looking into Mycroft’s eyes as the silence closed around them.

_We’re actually here. Going to do this._

_Fuck._

“I have wanted this for so long,” Greg said quietly. He raised one hand to Mycroft’s cheek, brushing his fingertips over the sharp cheekbone. They trembled as he held back, the good kind of restraint now; agonising but clear to be seen.

“As…as have I,” Mycroft replied, tilting his head towards the touch, seeking more. “I never…I do not think anybody knew. But how could I say no when Sherlock asked for my help?”

“I know,” Greg whispered. “I know.”

“I did not expect it to be so…”

“Honest?” Greg said, a breathless smile on his face. “Authentic?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s eyes fluttered as Greg’s fingers traced the planes of his face.

“Better and worse than you expected.” Greg’s words were statement, not question.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Ecstasy and agony intertwined.”

“And now?” Greg asked. “What about now?”

“Now?” Mycroft repeated, and the wonder in his voice made Greg’s soul sing. “Now…” he swallowed hard. “I am happy,” he said quietly.

“Me too,” Greg said. “God, your skin…” His hand slid down Mycroft’s neck, settling on the edge of his collar. “I want to…can I…”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Given how much I have had to do with your tie today,” he said, “I would suggest you may do as you like with mine.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “I had designs on more than just your tie, Mycroft.”

“I don’t find myself protesting,” Mycroft replied, his eyes widening.

“Good,” Greg whispered.


	9. Epilogue

Hours later, Greg stretched, groaning as his muscles protested. He had no idea of the time; they had certainly retired early, but the darkness outside gave no indication of exactly how many hours he and Mycroft had spent wrapped up in each other.

Recalling their activities, Greg grinned to himself, happiness filling him with warmth again. He could feel Mycroft breathing beside him, warm and soft, relaxed against the rumpled sheets. He wriggled down into the sheets again, cool air making his skin prickle and search for more warmth. The darkness felt like a cocoon, holding them together where secrets were safe and words whispered like promises. It had been a very long time since Greg had been anywhere close to this happy.

“You should sleep,” Mycroft murmured, one arm sliding over Greg’s stomach, his long body following to press along his side. “Boxing Day will be interesting, to say the least, this year.”

“Hmmm,” Greg replied, winding his own arm around Mycroft, still marvelling at the transformation. From shy touches and hesitance as they undressed each other Mycroft had drawn confidence from Greg, watching with fascination as Greg tried to hold onto his sanity through a frankly incredible blow job. It was pretty easy to convince someone they were attractive when you were ready to go again half an hour later, especially at his age; Mycroft had barely been trying before Greg was writhing on the sheets, biting back groans and practically begging for more.

He was still reserved, quiet as Greg explored him, finding what touches made him react a little and what brought him close; it was a study in subtlety. More soft gasps and clenching fingers than loud moans and cries of his name, but Greg loved it. Knowing he could bring down the iron control was a turn on in itself, and right now he was amazed he was still awake enough to even breathe, let along be considering how they could spend the further hours until morning.

A naked, increasingly confident partner plastered along your body could do that for you, he thought wryly to himself.

“So, what are we going to tell everyone?” Greg asked.

Mycroft stilled, his fingers pausing in their random patterns on Greg’s chest. “With respect to…”

“Us. The backstory of us, I mean.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. “I suppose that depends on exactly how honest you believe it necessary to be.”

“Well,” Greg said, grinning as he pressed kissed along Mycroft’s temple, “I’m pretty good at telling the truth. But just the right bits.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said cautiously.

“So,” Greg said, “If anyone asks, it was quite recent that we got together, but we didn’t tell anyone about it. You and I have been interested in each other for a long time, but we kept it a secret. Sherlock saw it, though.”

“He did?” Mycroft repeated, twisting to look up at Greg.

“Pretty sure he did,” Greg said. “I’d wager he used it to get us to…you know.”

“How very enterprising,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t tell John, which means he figured he could exploit it,” Greg said. “John won’t believe it if we tell him we were together and Sherlock didn’t pick it. Right now I’m pretty sure Sherlock would do anything you asked him, so this shouldn’t be a stretch.”

“You really believe this means so much to my brother?” Mycroft murmured.

“I do,” Greg answered. “He could have sung that song himself, or played it for John at Baker Street. But he didn’t. He waited until he had your help, and mine, and it was Christmas…whether he admits it or not, that brother of yours is a romantic at heart.”

“I suppose that could be true,” Mycroft agreed. “I’m not sure I necessarily see the romance of Christmas, however.”

“You haven’t seen enough Christmas movies,” Greg told him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a list.”

“Die Hard is not a Christmas movie,” Mycroft replied.

“Not strictly a Christmas romance, I guess, although John McClane is hoping to get back together with his wife…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft admonished him.

“Okay, okay,” Greg replied. “But I’m telling you, your brother not only saw right through us both, he engineered this whole thing to get us together as well as giving himself a good shot at John.”

“I sincerely doubt such a plan would cross Sherlock’s mind,” Mycroft said.

“Oh really,” Greg said, sliding further down the bed. He entwined his legs with Mycroft’s, bringing their hips and noses together in one motion. “And what exactly would you bet on that, Mr.Holmes?”

That raised eyebrow would never fail to thrill him, Greg thought, as Mycroft’s hands slipped down his back and over the swell of his arse.

“I’d be open to negotiation,” Mycroft said. “Regardless of the outcome, I have the feeling we’ll both be pleased.”

“Perfect line to end a Christmas romance, Mycroft,” Greg said, grinning.

And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are, a little after Christmas, but not too tardy. I hope you've enjoyed this little adventure - originally I had pegged the idea for the Mystrade Advent Calendar, but with a 5k limit, it quickly became evident that was not going to happen.  
> How could I skimp on the bedsharing/pretend relationship/helping out your brother/Christmas trope mix? <3


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